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i 


BEAR 


l|iititfmttjr   of  ^altJai'nui 


No. 


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187- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/balladsmakeOOthacrich 


BALLADS 


BY 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LTI. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

Ticknor  and  Fields, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT   THE 
BOSTON     STEREOTYPE     FOUNDRY. 


■ 

Mft/AJ 


These  Ballads  have  been  written  during  the  past 
fifteen  years,  and  are  now  gathered  by  the  author 
from  his  own  books,  and  the  various  periodicals  in 
which  the  pieces  appeared  originally.  They  are 
published  simultaneously  in  England  and  America,  — 
where  a  public,  which  has  been  interested  in  the 
writer's  prose  stories,  he  hopes  may  be  kindly  dis- 
posed to  his  little  volume  of  verses. 

Bostox,  27th  October,  1855. 


CONTENTS 


BALLADS. 

PAGE 

THE  CHRONICLE  OF   THE  DRUM, 1 

THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT, 26 

THE  WHITE  SQUALL, 38 

PEG  OF  LIMAVADDY, 45 

MAY  DAY  ODE, 53 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE, 60 

THE  MAHOGANY  TREE, 64 

THE  YANKEE  VOLUNTEERS, 67 

THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM, 71 

LUCY'S  BIRTHDAY, 75 

THE  CANE-BOTTOMED   CHAHt, 77 

PISCATOR  AND  PISCATRLX, 81 

a* 


VI  CONTEXTS. 

RONSARD  TO  HIS   MISTRESS, 84 

AT  THE   CHURCH   GATE, 86 

THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM, 88 

SORROWS   OF   WERTHER, 90 

THE  LAST  OF  MAY, 92 

LOVE  SONGS  MADE  EASY  : 

WHAT  MAKES  MY  HEART  TO  THRILL  AND  GLOW?    .      .      94 
THE  GHAZUL,   OR  ORIENTAL   LOVE   SONG  : 

THE  ROCKS, 9S 

THE  MERRY  BARD, 99 

THE   CAIQUE, 100 

FOUR  GERMAN  DITTIES  : 

A  TRAGIC   STORY, 102 

THE  CHAPLET, 103 

THE  KING  ON  THE  TOWER, 10j 

TO  A  VERY   OLD  WOMAN, 10G 

IMITATION  OF  HORACE  : 

TO  HIS   SERVING  BOY, 108 

AD  MINISTRAM, 109 

AN  OLD  FRIEND  WITH  A  NEW  FACE: 

THE  KNIGHTLY   GUERDON, 110 

THE  ALMACK'S  ADIEU, 112 

Tire  LEGEND  OF  ST.  SOPHIA  OF   KIOFF, 114 

TITMARSn'S  CABMEN  LILLIENSE, 146 


CONTENTS.  VU 

LYRA  HYBERXICA: 

THE  PEMLICO  PAVILION, 152 

THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE, 156 

MOLOXY'S  LAMENT, 163 

MR.  MOLONY'S   ACCOUNT    OF   THE   BALL    GIVEN   TO   THE 
NEPAULESE  AMBASSADOR  BY  THE  PENINSULAR  AND 

ORDZNTAL   COMPANY, 167 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK, 171 

THE  BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X.  : 

THE  WOLFE   NEW   BALLAD   OF   JANE   RONEY  AND  MARY 

BROWN, 176 

THE  THREE  CHRISTMAS  WAITS, 179 

LUXES  ON  A  LATE  HOSPICIOUS  EWENT, 187 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ELIZA  DAVIS, 193 

DAMAGES,   TWO  HUNDRED  POUNDS, 199 

THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY, 204 

JACOB   OMNIUM'S  HOSS, 208 

TILE   SPECULATORS, 215 

THE    LAMEXTABLE    BALLAD   OF   THE   FOUXDLIXG    OF    SHORE- 
DITCH,     218 

THE   EXD  OF  THE  PLAY, 224 


BALLADS. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM. 


PART  I. 


At  Paris,  hard  by  trie  Maine  barriers, 

Whoever  will  choose  to  repair, 
'Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legged  warriors, 

May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre. 
On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern, 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars, 
And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 

With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 
1  C1) 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker, 

And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails, 
Thus  over  his  favorite  liquor 

Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 
Says  he,  "  In  my  life's  ninety  summers, 

Strange  changes  and  chances  I've  seen,  — 
So  here's  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 

That  ever  have  thumped  on  a  skin. 

"  Brought  up  in  the  art  military 

For  four  generations  we  are  ; 
My  ancestors  drummed  for  King  Harry, 

The  Huguenot  lad  of  Navarre. 
And  as  each  man  in  life  has  his  station, 

According  as  Fortune  may  fix, 
While  Conde  was  waving  the  baton, 

My  grandsire  was  trolling  the  sticks. 

"  Ah !  those  were  the  days  for  commanders  ! 

What  glories  my  grandfather  won, 
Ere  bigots,  and  lackeys,  and  panders, 

The  fortunes  of  France  had  undone  ! 
In  Germany,  Flanders,  and  Holland,  — 

What  foeman  resisted  us  then  ? 
No  ;  my  grandsire  was  ever  victorious, 

My  grandsire  and  Monsieur  Turenne. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  He  died,  and  our  noble  battalions 

The  jade,  fickle  Fortune,  forsook  ; 
And  at  Blenheim,  in  spite  of  our  valiance, 

The  victory  lay  with  Malbrook. 
The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis; 

Corbleu  !  how  his  majesty  swore, 
When  he  heard  they  had  taken  my  grandsire, 

And  twelve  thousand  gentlemen  more  ! 

"  At  Namurs,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet 

Were  we  posted,  on  plain  or  in  trench  ; 
Malbrook  only  need  to  attack  it, 

And  away  from  him  scampered  we  French. 
Cheer  up  !  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys,  — 

'Tis  written,  since  fighting  begun, 
That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer, 

And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run. 

"  To  fight  and  to  run  was  our  fate ; 

Our  fortune  and  fame  had  departed ; 
And  so  perished  Louis  the  Great,  — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted. 
His  coffin  they  pelted  with  mud, 

His  body  they  tried  to  lay  hands  on ; 
And  so  having  buried  King  Louis 

They  loyally  served  his  great-grandson. 


THE    CHIIONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  God  save  the  beloved  King  Louis  ! 

(For  so  he  was  nicknamed  by  some,) 
And  now  came  my  father  to  do  his 

King's  orders,  and  beat  on  the  drum. 
My  grandsire  was  dead,  but  his  bones 

Must  have  shaken,  I'm  certain,  for  joy, 
To  hear  Daddy  drumming  the  English 

From  the  meadows  of  famed  Fontenoy. 

"  So  well  did  he  drum  in  that  battle, 

That  the  enemy  showed  us  their  backs ; 
Corbleu !  it  was  pleasant  to  rattle 

The  sticks,  and  to  follow  old  Saxe ! 
We  next  had  Soubise  as  a  leader, 

And  as  luck  hath  its  changes  and  fits, 
At  Rossbach,  in  spite  of  Dad's  drumming, 

'Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz. 

"  And  now  Daddy  crossed  the  Atlantic, 

To  drum  for  Montcalm  and  his  men ; 
Morbleu !  but  it  makes  a  man  frantic, 

To  think  we  were  beaten  again  ! 
My  daddy  he  crossed  the  wide  ocean, 

My  mother  brought  me  on  her  neck, 
And  we  came  in  the  year  fifty-seven 

To  guard  the  good  town  of  Quebec. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  In  the  year  fifty-nine  came  the  Britons,  — 

Full  well  I  remember  the  day,  — 
They  knocked  at  our  gates  for  admittance, 

Their  vessels  were  moored  in  our  bay. 
Says  our  general,  "  Drive  me  yon  red-coats 

Away  to  the  sea,  whence  they  come !" 
So  we  marched  against  Wolfe  and  his  bull-dogs, 

We  marched  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

"  I  think  I  can  see  my  poor  mammy 

With  me  in  her  hand  as  she  waits, 
And  our  regiment,  slowly  retreating, 

Pours  back  through  the  citadel  gates. 
Dear  mammy,  she  looks  in  their  faces, 

And  asks  if  her  husband  is  come. 
—  He  is  lying  all  cold  on  the  glacis, 

And  will  never  more  beat  on  the  drum. 

"  Come,  drink,  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys ; 

He  died  like  a  soldier  —  in  glory ; 
Here's  a  glass  to  the  health  of  all  drum  boys, 

And  now  I'll  commence  my  own  story. 
Once  more  did  we  cross  the  salt  ocean ; 

We  came  in  the  year  eighty-one  ; 
And  the  wrongs  of  my  father  the  drummer 

Were  avenged  by  the  drummer  his  son. 
1* 


THE    CHIiOXICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  In  Chesapeake  Bay  we  were  landed  ; 

In  vain  strove  the  British  to  pass ; 
Rochambeau  our  armies  commanded, 

Our  ships  they  were  led  by  De  Grasse. 
Morbleu  !  how  I  rattled  the  drumsticks, 

The  day  we  marched  into  Yorktown  ! 
Ten  thousand  of  beef-eating  British 

Their  weapons  we  caused  to  lay  down. 


"  Then  homewards  returning  victorious, 

In  peace  to  our  country  we  came, 
And  were  thanked  for  our  glorious  actions 

By  Louis  Sixteenth  of  the  name. 
What  drummer  on  earth  could  be  prouder 

Than  I,  while  I  drummed  at  Versailles 
To  the  lovely  court  ladies  in  powder, 

And  lappets,  and  long  satin  tails  ? 

"  The  princes  that  day  passed  before  us, 

Our  countrymen's  glory  and  hope  ; 
Monsieur,  who  was  learned  in  Horace, 

D'Artois,  who  could  dance  the  tight  rope. 
One  night  we  kept  guard  for  the  queen, 

At  her  majesty's  opera  box, 
While  the  king,  that  majestical  monarch, 

Sat  filing  at  home  at  his  locks. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  Yes,  I  drummed  for  the  fair  Antoinette  ; 

And  so  smiling  she  looked,  and  so  tender, 
That  our  officers,  privates,  and  drummers, 

All  vowed  they  would  die  to  defend  her. 
But  she  cared  not  for  us  honest  fellows, 

Who  fought  and  who  bled  in  her  wars  ; 
She  sneered  at  our  gallant  Rochambeau, 

And  turned  Lafayette  out  of  doors. 


"  Ventrebleu !  then  I  swore  a  great  oath 

No  more  to  such  tyrants  to  kneel ; 
And  so  just  to  keep  up  my  drumming, 

One  day  I  drummed  down  the  Bastile 
Ho,  landlord  !  a  stoup  of  fresh  wine  ; 

Come,  comrades,  a  bumper  we'll  try, 
And  drink  to  the  year  eighty-nine, 

And  the  glorious  fourth  of  July ! 


"  Then  bravely  our  cannon  it  thundered, 

As  onwards  our  patriots  bore  ; 
Our  enemies  were  but  a  hundred, 

And  we  twenty  thousand  or  more. 
They  carried  the  news  to  King  Louis, 

He  heard  it  as  calm  as  you  please ; 
And  like  a  majestical  monarch, 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  We  showed  our  republican  courage, 

We  stormed  and  we  broke  the  great  gate  in, 
And  we  murdered  the  insolent  governor 

For  daring  to  keep  us  a  waiting. 
Lambesc  and  his  squadrons  stood  by ; 

They  never  stirred  finger  or  thumb ; 
The  saucy  aristocrats  trembled 

As  they  heard  the  republican  drum. 

"  Hurrah !  what  a  storm  was  a  brewing  ! 

The  day  of  our  vengeance  was  come ; 
Through  scenes  of  what  carnage  and  ruin 

Did  I  beat  on  the  patriot  drum  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  famed  tenth  of  August ; 

At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo, 
And  woke  up  the  pikemen  of  Paris, 

To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux. 

"  With  pikes,  and  with  shouts,  and  with  torches, 

Marched  onwards  our  dusty  battalions  ; 
And  we  girt  the  tall  castle  of  Louis, 

A  million  of  tatterdemalions  ! 
We  stormed  the  fair  gardens  where  towered 

The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid ; 
Ah,  shame  on  him,  craven  and  coward, 

That  had  not  the  heart  to  defend  it ! 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  5 

"  With  the  crown  of  his  sires  on  his  head, 

His  nobles  and  knights  by  his  side, 
At  the  foot  of  his  ancestors'  palace 

'Twere  easy,  me  thinks,  to  have  died. 
But  no  ;  when  we  burst  through  his  barriers, 

'Mid  heaps  of  the  dying  and  dead, 
In  vain  through  the  chambers  we  sought  him,  — 

He  had  turned  like  a  craven  and  fled. 

*  *  * 

"  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  ? 

'Tis  hard  by  the  Tuilerie  wall ; 
'Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues, 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 
There  rises  an  obelisk  tall ; 

All  garnished  and  gilded  the  base  is ; 
'Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  all 

Our  beautiful  city's  gay  places. 

"  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers, 

And  the  cities  of  France  on  their  thrones, 
Each  crowned  with  his  circlet  of  flowers, 

Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 
I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there, 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see, 
And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  there, 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 


10  THE    CHROXICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

"  "Twas  here  stood  the  altar  of  freedom, 

And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 
Were  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 

Our  simple  republican  building, 
Corbleu  !  but  the  mere  guillotine 

Cared  little  for  splendor  or  show, 
So  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

"  Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect 

Here  sate  our  republican  goddess  ; 
Each  morning  her  table  we  decked 

"With  dainty  aristocrats'  bodies. 
The  people  each  day  nocked  around, 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine  ; 
'Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 

To  witness  the  sovereign  dine. 

"  Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 

Old  silver-haired  prelates  and  priests, 
Dukes,  marquises,  barons,  princesses, 

Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 
Ventrebleu !  but  we  pampered  our  ogress 

With  the  best  that  our  nation  could  bring, 
And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress, 

And  called  for  the  head  of  a  king ! 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  11 

"  She  called  for  the  blood  of  our  king, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew  him  ; 
And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him, 

And  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  slew  him. 
'  The  monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 

Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance  ; 
I'll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis,' 

She  said,  '  as  my  gage  of  defiance.' 

"I  see  him  as  now,  for  a  moment, 

Away  from  his  jailers  he  broke, 
And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold, 

And  lingered,  and  fain  would  have  spoke. 
<  Ho,  drummer  !  quick !  silence  yon  Capet,' 

Says  Santerre,  '  with  a  beat  of  your  drum ; * 
Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it, 

And  the  son  of  St.  Louis  was  dumb." 


12  THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 


PART  II. 

"  The  glorious  days  of  September 

Saw  many  aristocrats  fall ; 
'Twas  then  that  our  pikes  drunk  the  blood, 

In  the  beautiful  breast  of  Lamballe. 
Pardi,  'twas  a  beautiful  lady  ! 

I  seldom  have  looked  on  her  like  ; 
And  I  drummed  for  a  gallant  procession, 

That  marched  with  her  head  on  a  pike. 

"  Let's  show  the  pale  head  to  the  queen, 

We  said  —  she'll  remember  it  well ; 
She  looked  from  the  bars  of  her  prison, 

And  shrieked  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell. 
We  set  up  a  shout  at  her  screaming, 

We  laughed  at  the  fright  she  had  shown 
At  the  sight  of  the  head  of  her  minion ; 

How  she'd  tremble  to  part  with  her  own  ! 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  13 

"  We  had  taken  the  head  of  King  Capet, 

"We  called  for  the  blood  of  his  wife  ; 
Undaunted  she  came  to  the  scaffold, 

And  bared  her  fair  neck  to  the  knife. 
As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touched  her, 

She  shrunk,  but  she  deigned  not  to  speak, 
She  looked  with  a  royal  disdain, 

And  died  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek  ! 

"  'Twas  thus  that  our  country  was  saved ; 

So  told  us  the  safety  committee  ! 
But  psha  !  I've  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

All  gentleness,  mercy,  and  pity. 
I  loathed  to  assist  at  such  deeds, 

And  my  drum  beat  its  loudest  of  tunes 
As  we  offered  to  justice  offended 

The  blood  of  the  bloody  tribunes. 

'•  Away  with  such  foul  recollections  ! 

No  more  of  the  axe  and  the  block ; 
I  saw  the  last  fight  of  the  sections, 

As  they  fell  'neath  our  guns  at  Saint  Rock. 
Young  Bonaparte  led  us  that  day  ; 

When  he  sought  the  Italian  frontier, 
I  followed  my  gallant  young  captain, 

I  followed  him  many  a  long  year. 
2 


14  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM. 

"  We  came  to  an  army  in  rags, 

Our  general  was  but  a  boy, 
When  we  first  saw  the  Austrian  flags 

Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy. 
In  the  glorious  year  ninety-six, 

We  marched  to  the  banks  of  the  Po ; 
I  carried  my  drum  and  my  sticks, 

And  we  laid  the  proud  Austrian  low. 

1  In  triumph  we  entered  Milan, 

We  seized  on  the  Mantuan  keys  ; 
The  troops  of  the  Emperor  ran, 

And  the  Pope  he  fell  down  on  his  knees."- 
Pierre's  comrades  here  called  a  fresh  bottle, 

And  clubbing  together  their  wealth, 
They  drank  to  the  Army  of  Italy, 

And  General  Bonaparte's  health. 

The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast, 

And  showed  us  a  plenty  of  scars, 
Rude  presents  that  fortune  had  made  him, 

In  fifty  victorious  wars. 
"  This  came  when  I  followed  bold  Kleber  — 

'Twas  shot  by  a  Mameluke  gun ; 
And  this  from  an  Austrian  sabre, 

When  the  field  of  Marengo  was  won. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  15 

"  My  forehead  has  many  deep  furrows, 

But  this  is  the  deepest  of  all ; 
A  Brims  wicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal. 
This  cross,  'twas  the  Emperor  gave  it ; 

(God  bless  him  !)  it  covers  a  blow  ; 
I  had  it  at  Austerlitz  fight, 

As  I  beat  on  my  drum  in  the  snow. 

"  'Twas  thus  that  we  conquered  and  fought ; 

But  wherefore  continue  the  story  ? 
There's  never  a  baby  in  France 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  glory,  — 
But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  fame, 

His  sorrows  and  triumphs  can  tell, 
How  bravely  Napoleon  conquered, 

How  bravely  and  sadly  he  fell. 

"  It  makes  my  old  heart  to  beat  higher, 

To  think  of  the  deeds  that  I  saw  ; 
I  followed  bold  Ney  through  the  fire, 

And  charged  at  the  side  of  Murat." 
And  so  did  old  Peter  continue 

His  story  of  twenty  brave  years  ; 
His  audience  followed  with  comments  — 

Rude  comments  of  curses  and  tears. 


16  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM. 

He  told  how  the  Prussians  in  vain 

Had  died  in  defence  of  their  land  ; 
His  audience  laughed  at  the  story, 

And  vowed  that  their  captain  was  grand  ! 
He  had  fought  the  red  English,  he  said, 

In  many  a  battle  of  Spain  ; 
They  cursed  the  red  English,  and  prayed 

To  meet  them  and  fight  them  again. 

He  told  them  how  Russia  was  lost, 

Had  winter  not  driven  them  back  ; 
And  his  company  cursed  the  quick  frost, 

And  doubly  they  cursed  the  Cossack. 
He  told  how  the  stranger  arrived ; 

They  wrept  at  the  tale  of  disgrace  ; 
And  they  longed  but  for  one  battle  more, 

The  stain  of  their  shame  to  efface  ! 

"  Our  country  their  hordes  overrun, 

We  fled  to  the  fields  of  Champagne, 
And  fought  them,  though  twenty  to  one, 

And  beat  them  again  and  again  ! 
Our  warrior  was  conquered  at  last ; 

They  bade  him  his  crown  to  resign  ; 
To  fate  and  his  country  he  yielded 

The  rights  of  himself  and  his  line. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OE    THE    DRUM.  17 

"  He  came,  and  among  us  he  stood, 

Around  him  we  pressed  in  a  throng, 
We  could  not  regard  him  for  weeping, 

Who  had  led  us  and  loved  us  so  long. 
*  I  have  led  you  for  twenty  long  years,' 

Napoleon  said  ere  he  went ; 
'  Wherever  was  honor  I  found  you, 

And  with  you,  my  sons,  am  content. 

"  '  Though  Europe  against  me  was  armed, 
Your  chiefs  and  my  people  are  true  ; 

I  still  might  have  struggled  with  fortune, 
And  baffled  all  Europe  with  you. 

"  '  But  France  would  have  suffered  the  while; 

'Tis  best  that  I  suffer  alone  ; 
I  go  to  my  place  of  exile, 

To  write  of  the  deeds  we  have  done. 

" '  Be  true  to  the  king  that  they  give  you  ; 

We  may  not  embrace  ere  we  part ; 
But,  General,  reach  me  your  hand, 

And  press  me,  I  pray,  to  your  heart.' 

"  He  called  for  our  old  battle  standard ; 
One  kiss  to  the  eagle  he  gave. 

2*  B 


18  THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE   DRUM. 

1  Dear  eagle  ! '  he  said,  '  may  this  kiss 
Long  sound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  ! ' 

'T\vas  thus  that  Napoleon  left  us  ; 
Our  people  were  weeping  and  mute, 

And  he  passed  through  the  lines  of  his  guard, 
And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute. 


"  I  looked  when  the  drumming  was  o'er, 

I  looked,  but  our  hero  was  gone ; 
We  were  destined  to  see  him  once  more, 

When  we  fought  on  the  Mount  of  St.  John. 
The  Emperor  rode  through  our  files ; 

'Twas  June,  and  a  fair  Sunday  morn ; 
The  lines  of  our  warriors  for  miles 

Stretched  wide  through  the  Waterloo  corn. 

"  In  thousands  we  stood  on  the  plain  ; 

The  red  coats  were  crowning  the  height ; 
'  Go  scatter  yon  English,'  he  said  ; 

'  We'll  sup,  lads,  at  Brussels  to-night.' 
We  answered  his  voice  with  a  shout ; 

Our  eagles  were  bright  in  the  sun ; 
Our  drums  and  our  cannon  spoke  out, 

And  the  thundering  battle  begun. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  19 

"  One  charge  to  another  succeeds, 

Like  waves  that  a  hurricane  bears  ; 
All  day  do  our  galloping  steeds 

Dash  fierce  on  the  enemy's  squares. 
At  noon  we  began  the  fell  onset ; 

We  charged  up  the  Englishman's  hill ; 
And  madly  we  charged  it  at  sunset  — 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 

«  —  Go  to  !  I  will  tell  you  no  more  ; 

You  know  how  the  battle  was  lost. 
Ho  !  fetch  me  a  beaker  of  wine, 

And,  comrades,  I'll  give  you  a  toast. 
I'll  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors, 

Who  plotted  our  Emperor's  ruin ; 
And  a  curse  on  those  red-coated  English, 

Whose  bayonets  helped  our  undoing. 

"  A  curse  on  those  British  assassins 

Who  ordered  the  slaughter  of  Ney ; 
A  curse  on  Sir  Hudson,  who  tortured 

The  life  of  our  hero  away. 
A  curse  on  all  Russians  —  I  hate  them  — 

On  all  Prussian  and  Austrian  fry  ; 
And,  0  !  but  I  pray  we  may  meet  them, 

And  fight  them  again  ere  I  die." 


20  THE    CHRONICLE   OF    THE    DRUM. 


'Twas  thus  old  Peter  did  conclude 
His  chronicle  with  curses  fit. 

He  spoke  the  tale  in  accents  rude, 
In  ruder  verse  I  copied  it. 

Perhaps  the  tale  a  moral  bears, 

(All  tales  in  time  to  this  must  come,) 

The  story  of  two  hundred  years 
Writ  on  the  parchment  of  a  drum. 

What  Peter  told  with  drum  and  stick, 
Is  endless  theme  for  poet's  pen : 

Is  found  in  endless  quartos  thick, 
Enormous  books  by  learned  men. 

And  ever  since  historian  writ, 
And  ever  since  a  bard  could  sing, 

Doth  each  exalt,  with  all  his  wit, 
The  noble  art  of  murdering. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM.  21 

We  love  to  read  the  glorious  page, 

How  bold  Achilles  killed  his  foe, 
And  Turnus,  felled  by  Trojans'  rage, 

Went  howling  to  the  shades  below. 

How  Godfrey  led  his  red-cross  knights, 
How  mad  Orlando  slashed  and  slew ; 

There's  not  a  single  bard  that  writes, 
But  doth  the  glorious  theme  renew. 

And  while  in  fashion  picturesque, 

The  poet  rhymes  of  blood  and  blows, 

The  grave  historian,  at  his  desk, 
Describes  the  same  in  classic  prose. 

Go  read  the  works  of  Reverend  Cox ; 

You'll  duly  see  recorded  there 
The  history  of  the  self-same  knocks 

Here  roughly  sung  by  Drummer  Pierre. 

Of  battles  fierce  and  warriors  big, 
He  writes  in  phrases  dull  and  slow, 

And  waves  his  cauliflower  wig, 

And  shouts,  "Saint  George  for  Marlborow  !  " 


22  THE    CHRONICLE    OF   THE    DRUM. 

Take  Doctor  Soutliey  from  the  shelf, 
An  LL.  D.,  —  a  peaceful  man ; 

Good  Lord,  how  doth  he  plume  himself, 
Because  we  beat  the  Corsican ! 

From  first  to  last  his  page  is  filled 

With  stirring  tales  how  blows  were  struck. 

He  shows  how  we  the  Frenchmen  killed, 
And  praises  God  for  our  good  luck. 

Some  hints,  'tis  true,  of  politics 

The  doctors  give,  and  statesman's  art ; 

Pierre  only  bangs  his  drum  and  sticks, 
And  understands  the  bloody  part. 

He  cares  not  what  the  cause  may  be, 
He  is  not  nice  for  wrong  and  right ; 

But  show  him  where' s  the  enemy, 
He  only  asks  to  drum  and  fight. 

They  bid  him  fight,  —  perhaps  he  wins ; 

And  when  he  tells  the  story  o'er, 
The  honest  savage  brags  and  grins, 

And  only  longs  to  fight  once  more. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.  23 

But  luck  may  change,  and  valor  fail, 
Our  drummer,  Peter,  meet  reverse, 

And  with  a  moral  points  his  tale  — 
The  end  of  all  such  tales  —  a  curse. 


Last  year,  my  love,  it  was  my  hap 

Behind  a  grenadier  to  be, 
And,  but  he  wore  a  hairy  cap, 

No  taller  man,  me  thinks,  than  me. 

Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  God  wot, 
(Be  blessings  on  the  glorious  pair  !) 

Before  us  passed,  I  saw  them  not, 
I  only  saw  a  cap  of  hair. 

Your  orthodox  historian  puts 

In  foremost  rank  the  soldier  thus, 

The  red-coat  bully  in  his  boots, 

That  hides  the  march  of  men  from  us. 


24  THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRUM. 

He  puts  him  there  in  foremost  rank, 

You  wonder  at  his  cap  of  hair : 
You  hear  his  sabre's  cursed  clank, 

His  spurs  are  jingling  every  where. 

Go  to  !  I  hate  him  and  his  trade  : 
Who  bade  us  so  to  cringe  and  bend, 

And  all  God's  peaceful  people  made 
To  such  as  him  subservient  ? 

Tell  me  what  find  we  to  admire 

In  epaulets  and  scarlet  coats, 
In  men  because  they  load  and  fire, 

And  know  the  art  of  cutting  throats  ? 
*■  #  #  #  * 

Ah,  gentle,  tender  lady  mine  ! 

The  winter  wind  blows  cold  and  shrill, 
Come,  fill  me  one  more  glass  of  wine, 

And  give  the  silly  fools  their  will. 

And  what  care  we  for  war  and  wrack, 
How  kings  and  heroes  rise  and  fall  ? 

Look  yonder  ;  *  in  his  coffin  black, 
There  lies  the  greatest  of  them  all ! 

*  This  ballad  was  written  at  Paris,  at  the  time  of  the  second  funeral 
of  Napoleon. 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    DRL'M.  25 

To  pluck  him  down,  and  keep  him  up, 

Died  many  million  human  souls  ; 
'Tis  twelve  o'clock,  and  time  to  sup, 

Bid  Mary  heap  the  fire  with  coals. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns  ; 

He  wrote  "The  Great"  before  his  name; 
And  dying,  only  left  his  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 

He  died  without  a  rood  his  own ; 
And  borrowed  from  his  enemies 

Six  foot  of  ground  to  lie  upon. 

He  fought  a  thousand  glorious  wars, 
And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 

And  somewhere,  now,  in  yonder  stars, 
Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is. 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT. 


The  noble  king  of  Brentford 

Was  old  and  very  sick ; 
He  summoned  his  physicians 

To  wait  upon  him  quick  ; 
They  stepped  into  their  coaches, 

And  brought  their  best  physick. 

They  crammed  their  gracious  master 
With  potion  and  with  pill ; 

They  drenched  him  and  they  bled  him 
They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 

"  Go  fetch,"  says  he,  "  my  lawyer ; 
I'd  better  make  my  will." 

(26) 


the  king  or  beextford's  testament. 

The  monarch's  royal  mandate 

The  lawyer  did  obey  ; 
The  thought  of  six-aud-eightpence 

Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 
"  What  is't,"  says  he,  "  your  majesty 

Would  wish  of  me  to-day?  " 

"  The  doctors  have  belabored  me 

With  potion  and  with  pill : 
My  hours  of  life  are  counted, 

0  man  of  tape  and  quill ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two, 

1  want  to  make  my  will. 

"  O'er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 
I'm  lord  and  eke  of  Kew  : 

I've  three  per  cents  and  five  per  cents ; 
My  debts  are  but  a  few ; 

And  to  inherit  after  me 
I  have  but  children  two. 

"  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son, 

A  sober  prince  is  he  ; 
And  from  the  day  we  breeched  him, 

Till  now  he's  twenty- three, 
He  never  caused  disquiet 

To  his  poor  mamma  or  me. 


27 


28  THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT. 

"  At  school  they  never  flogged  him ; 

At  college,  though  not  fast, 
Yet  his  little  go  and  great  go 

He  creditably  passed, 
And  made  his  year's  allowance 

For  eighteen  months  to  last. 

"  He  never  owed  a  shilling, 
Went  never  drunk  to  bed, 

He  has  not  two  ideas 
Within  his  honest  head ; 

In  all  respects  he  differs 

From  my  second  son,  Prince  Ned. 

"  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 
Laid  by  at  the  year's  end, 

Poor  Ned  has  ne'er  a  stiver 
That  rightly  he  may  spend, 

But  sponges  on  a  tradesman, 
Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 

"  While  Tom  his  legal  studies 

Most  soberly  pursues, 
Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 

A- dawdling  with  the  Muse ; 
While  Tom  frequents  his  banker, 

Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews. 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT.  29 

"  Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 

Tom  sometimes  takes  a  'bus  ; 
Ah,  cruel  fate,  why  made  you 

My  children  differ  thus  ? 
Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard, 

And  Ned  a  genius  ?  " 

"  You'll  cut  him  with  a  shilling," 

Exclaimed  the  man  of  wits  : 
"  I'll  leave  my  wealth,"  said  Brentford, 

"  Sir  Lawyer,  as  befits ; 
And  portion  both  their  fortunes 

Unto  their  several  wits." 

"  Your  grace  knows  best,"  the  lawyer  said, 

"  On  your  commands  I  wait." 
"  Be  silent,  sir,"  says  Brentford, 

"  A  plague  upon  your  prate ! 
Come,  take  you  pen  and  paper, 

And  write  as  I  dictate." 

The  will,  as  Brentford  spoke  it, 
Was  writ,  and  signed,  and  closed ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him, 

And  turned  him  round,  and  dozed ; 

And  next  week  in  the  churchyard 

The  good  old  king  reposed. 
3* 


30  THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT. 

Tom,  dressed  in  crape  and  hatband, 
Of  mourners  was  the  chief; 

In  bitter  self-upbraidings 

Poor  Edward  showed  his  grief; 

Tom  hid  his  fat,  white  countenance 
In  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

Ned's  eyes  were  full  of  weeping, 

He  faltered  in  his  walk  ; 
Tom  never  shed  a  tear, 

But  onwards  he  did  stalk, 
As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn, 

As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  the  bones  of  Brentford  — 
That  gentle  king  and  just  — 

With  bell,  and  book,  and  candle, 
Were  duly  laid  in  dust, 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  says  Thomas, 
"  Let  business  be  discussed. 

"  When  late  our  sire  beloved 

Was  taken  deadly  ill, 
Sir  Lawyer,  you  attended  him, 

(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill ;) 
And,  as  you  signed  and  wrote  it, 

I  pr'ythee  read  the  will." 


the  king  of  brentford's  testament.  31 

The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 

And  drew  the  parchment  out ; 
And  all  the  Brentford  family 

Sat  eager  round  about : 
Poor  Ned  wras  somewhat  anxious, 

But  Tom  had  ne'er  a  doubt. 

"  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 

To  seek  my  last  long  home, 
Some  cares  I  had  for  Neddy, 

But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom  : 
Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne'er  departed  from. 

"  Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius, 

And  thou  a  plodding  brain ; 
On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure, 

On  him  with  doubt  and  pain." 
("You  see,  good  Ned,"  says  Thomas, 

"What  he  thought  about  us  twain.") 

"  Though  small  was  your  allowance, 

You  saved  a  little  store  ; 
And  those  who  save  a  little 

Shall  get  a  plenty  more." 
As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 

Tom's  eyes  were  running  o'er. 


32  THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT. 

"  The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 
Set  out,  at  each  his  pace ; 

The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter, 
The  tortoise  won  the  race ; 

And  since  the  world's  beginning, 
This  ever  was  the  case. 

"  Ned's  genius,  blithe  and  singing, 
Steps  gayly  o'er  the  ground ; 

As  steadily  you  trudge  it, 
He  clears  it  with  a  bound  ; 

But  dullness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 
And  wind  that's  wondrous  sound. 

"  O'er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 
You  pass  with  plodding  feet ; 

You  heed  not  one  nor  t'other, 
But  onwards  go  your  beat, 

While  genius  stops  to  loiter 
With  all  that  he  may  meet ; 

"  And  ever,  as  he  wanders, 
Will  have  a  pretext  fine 

For  sleeping  in  the  morning, 
Or  loitering  to  dine, 

Or  dozing  in  the  shade, 
Or  basking  in  the  shine. 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFOKd's    TESTAMENT.  33 

"  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 

Though  not  so  bright  as  those 
That  restless  round  about  him 

Your  flashing  genius  throws, 
Are  excellently  suited 

To  look  before  your  nose. 

"  Thank  heaven,  then,  for  the  blinkers 

It  placed  before  your  eyes ; 
The  stupidest  are  weakest, 

The  witty  are  not  wise ; 
0,  bless  your  good  stupidity, 

It  is  your  dearest  prize  ! 

"  And  though  my  lands  are  wide, 

And  plenty  is  my  gold, 
Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold  — 
A  brain  that's  thick  and  heavy, 

A  heart  that's  dull  and  cold  ; 

"  Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 

Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 
Too  cold  to  yield  to  passion, 

Or  silly  tenderness. 
March  on  —  your  road  is  open 

To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 


34  THE    KING    OF    BRENTFOED's    TESTAMENT. 

"  Ned  sinncth  in  extravagance, 

And  you  in  greedy  lust." 
("  I'  faith,"  says  Ned,  "  our  father 

Is  less  polite  than  just.") 
"  In  you,  son  Tom,  I've  confidence, 

But  Ned  I  cannot  trust. 

"  Wherefore  my  lease  and  copyholds, 
My  lands  and  tenements, 

My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards, 
My  houses  and  my  rents, 

My  Dutch  stock,  and  my  Spanish  stock, 
My  five  and  three  per  cents ; 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas —  " 
("  What,  all  ?  "  poor  Edward  said  ; 

"  Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them, 
And  Tom's  a  prudent  head.") 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas,  — 
To  you,  in  trust  for  Ned." 

The  wrath  and  consternation 
What  poet  e'er  could  trace 

That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o'er  Prince  Tom  his  face  ; 

The  wonder  of  the  company, 
And  honest  Ned's  amaze  ! 


THE    KING    OF    BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT.  35 

"  'Tis  surely  some  mistake," 

Good-naturedly  cries  Ned ; 
The  lawyer  answered  gravely, 

"  'Tis  even  as  I  said; 
'Twas  thus  his  gracious  majesty 

Ordained  on  his  death  bed. 

"  See,  here  the  will  is  witnessed, 

And  here's  his  autograph." 
"  In  truth,  our  father's  writing," 

Says  Edward,  with  a  laugh ; 
"  But  thou  shalt  not  be  loser,  Tom, 

We'll  share  it  half  and  half." 

"  Alas  !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 

This  sharing  cannot  be  ; 
'Tis  written  in  the  testament 

That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 
1 1  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give 

Prince  Tom  a  halfpenny. 

"  '  He  hath  a  store  of  money, 
But  ne'er  was  known  to  lend  it; 

He  never  helped  his  brother ; 
The  poor  he  ne'er  befriended ; 


36  THE    KING    OF    BKENTFORd's    TESTAMENT. 

He  hath  no  need  of  property 

Who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 

" '  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend, 

And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard ; 
Let  Thomas  be  the  steward  then, 

And  Edward  be  the  lord ; 
And  as  the  honest  laborer 

Is  worthy  his  reward, 

"  *  I  pray  Prince  Ned,  my  second  son, 

And  my  successor  dear, 
To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 

And  live  and  make  good  cheer.'  " 

Such  was  old  Brentford's  honest  testament ; 

He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best, 

And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peaceful  rest. 
Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made  and  spent ; 

But  his  good  sire  was  wrong,  it  is  confessed. 
To  say  his  son,  young  Thomas,  never  lent. 

He  did.     Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest, 
And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 


THE    KING    OF    BEENTFORD's   TESTAMENT.  37 

Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured, 

O'er  Chiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford,  Putney,  Kew ; 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne'er  was  cured. 

And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will  do, 

'Twas  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 
4 


THE  WHITE   SQUALL. 


On  deck,  beneath  the  awning, 
I  dozing  lay  and  yawning  ; 
It  is  the  gray  of  dawning, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  arose  ; 
And  above  the  funnel's  roaring, 
And  the  fitful  wind's  deploring, 
I  heard  the  cabin  snoring 

With  universal  nose. 
I  could  hear  the  passengers  snorting  — 
I  envied  their  disporting  — 
Vainly  I  was  courting 

The  pleasure  of  a  doze  ! 

So  I  lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight, 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight, 
That  shot  across  the  deck  ; 

(38) 


THE    WHITE    SQUALL.  39 

And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady, 
And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye, 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen, 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 

The  hazy  sky  to  speck. 
Strange  company  we  harbored  : 
We'd  a  hundred  Jews  to  larboard, 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered  — 

Jews  black,  and  brown,  and  gray. 

With  terror  it  would  seize  ye, 
And  make  your  souls  uneasy, 
To  see  those  Rabbis  greasy, 

Who  did  nought  but  scratch  and  pray. 
Their  dirty  children  puking  — 
Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking  — 
Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 

Their  swarming  fleas  away. 

To  starboard,  Turks  and  Greeks  were  — 
Whiskered  and  brown  their  cheeks  were  — 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were  — 
Their  pipes  did  puff  away  ; 


40  THE    WHITE    SQUALL. 

Each  on  his  mat  allotted 

In  silence  smoked  and  squatted, 

Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 

In  pretty  pleasant  play. 
He  can't  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 
And  the  pretty  prattling  graces 

Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling  — 
And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  Iberia  bowling 
Before  the  break  of  day 

When  a  squall,  upon  a  sudden, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding  ; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 
And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather, 
And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled, 
-  And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean, 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 
Then  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
And  the  poodle  dog  a  yowling, 
And  the  cocks  began  a  crowing, 
And  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing, 
As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing  ; 


THE    WHITE    SQUALL.  41 

And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle, 

And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 

Began  to  shriek  and  crackle  ; 

And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 

And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 

And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all, 

From  the  seamen  in  the  fo'ksal, 

To  the  stokers  whose  black  faces 

Peer  out  of  their  bed-places  ; 

And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 

And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling, 

And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 

Was  shivered  in  the  squalling  ; 

And  the  passengers  awaken, 

Most  pitifully  shaken  ; 

And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 

For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quivered, 
And  they  knelt,  and  moaned,  and  shivered, 
As  the  plunging  waters  met  them, 
And  splashed  and  overset  them  ; 
And  they  called  in  their  emergence 
Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins  ; 
And  their  marrowbones  are  bended, 
And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 
4* 


42  THE    WHITE    SQUALL. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for'ard 
Were  frightened  and  bchorrored  ; 
And  shrieking  and  bewildering, 
The  mothers  clutched  their  children ; 
The  men  sung  "  Allah  !  Illah  ! 
Mashallah  Bismillah  ! " 
As  the  warring  waters  doused  them, 
And  splashed  them  and  soused  them  ; 
And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 
And  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry- 
Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury  ; 
And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 
Did  on  the  main- deck  wake  up, 
(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 
"Would  never  pay  for  cabins  ;) 
And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 
His  filthy  Jewish  gabardine, 
In  woe  and  lamentation, 
And  howling  consternation. 
And  the  splashing  water  drenches 
Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches  ; 
And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches, 
In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 


THE    WHITE    SQUALL.  43 

This  was  the  white  squall  famous, 

Which  latterly  o'ercame  us, 

And  which  all  will  well  remember 

On  the  28th  September ; 

When  a  Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 

(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 

Came  on  the  deck  astonished, 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  "  Potz  tausend, 

Wie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend  ?  " 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 

Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 

Cigar  in  all  the  bustle, 
And  scorned  the  tempest's  tussle  ; 
And  oft  we've  thought  hereafter 
How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter ; 
For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 
With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle  ; 
And  when  a  wreck  we  thought  her, 
And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 
How  gayly  he  fought  her, 
And  through  the  hubbub  brought  her, 
And  as  the  tempest  caught  her, 
Cried,  "  George  !    some  brandy  and 
water  ! " 


44  THE    WHITE    SQUALL. 

And  when,  its  force  expended, 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea,  — 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me. 


PEG  OF  LIMAVADDY. 


Riding  from  Coleraine 

(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty) 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 

Unto  Derry  city ; 
Weary  was  his  soul, 

Shivering  and  sad  he 
Bumped  along  the  road  — 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Mountains  stretched  around, 
Gloomy  was  their  tinting, 

And  the  horse's  hoofs 
Made  a  dismal  dinting  ; 

Wind  upon  the  heath 
Howling  was  and  piping, 

(45) 


46  PEG    OF    LIMAYADDY. 

On  the  heath  and  bo' 


'O' 


Black  with  many  a  snipe  in ; 
'Mid  the  bogs  of  black, 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 
Crows  upon  their  sides 

Picking  were  and  splashing. 
Cockney  on  the  car 

Closer  folds  his  plaidy, 
Grumbling  at  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 
Through  the  crashing  woods 

Autumn  brawled  and  blustered, 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  mustard ; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a  storm  was  whipping, 
Covering  with  mist 

Lake,  and  shores,  and  shipping. 
Up  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder) 
Horse  went  with  a  raw, 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Where  are  horses  changed  ?  " 

Said  I  to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box  : 

"  Sir,  at  Limavaddy." 


PEG    OF    LIMAVADDY. 

Limavaddy  inn's 

But  a  humble  baithouse, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes  ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

W^ho  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook 

Having  found  admittance, 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens  ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies  ;) 
And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it, 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted  ! 


47 


48  PEG    OF    LIMAYADDY. 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter, 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  nor  fatter ;) 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses, 
Both  have  —  here  the  host 

Kindly  interposes : 
"  Sure  you  must  be  froze 

With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir  ; 
So  will  you  have  some  punch, 

Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir  ?  " 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor, 
(Half  a  pint  of  ale 

Frothing  in  a  beaker.) 
Gads  !  I  didn't  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant ; 
Hebe's  self  I  thought 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  she  came  she  smiled, 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 
On  my  word  and  honor, 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen  ! 


PEG    OF    LIMAYADDY.  49 

With  a  courtesy  neat 

Greeting  the  new  comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Offers  me  the  rummer ; 
But  my  trembling  hand 

Up  the  beaker  tilted, 
And  the  glass  of  ale 

Every  drop  I  spilt  it  — 
Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames  who  read  my  volumes, 
Pardon  such  a  word) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call-ems  ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disaster, 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master  ; 
Such  a  merry  peal, 

'Specially  Miss  Peg's  was, 
(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  was,) 
That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  mingling  laughter 
Echoed  in  my  ears 

Many  a  long  day  after. 

5  D 


50  PEG    OF    IIJIAVADDY. 

Such  a  silver  peal  ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening  ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel, 

Singing  "  Giovinetti ;  " 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full ! 

When  the  laugh  was  done, 

Peg,  the  pretty  hussy, 
Moved  about  the  room 

Wonderfully  busy ; 
Now  she  looks  to  see 

If  the  kettle  keep  hot ; 
Now  she  rubs  the  spoons, 

Now  she  cleans  the  tea-pot ; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 

Trimly  and  secure  ; 
Now  she  scours  a  pot, 

And  so  it  was  I  drew  her. 


PEG    OF    LIMAVADDT. 

Thus  it  was  I  drew  her 

Scouring  of  a  kettle, 
(Faith  !  her  blushing  cheeks 

Reddened  on  the  metal !) 
Ah  !  but  'tis  in  vain 

That  I  try  to  sketch  it ; 
The  pot  perhaps  is  like, 

But  Peggy's  face  is  wretched. 
No,  the  best  of  lead, 

And  of  Indian  rubber, 
Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle  scrubber ! 

See  her  as  she  moves  ! 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches ; 
Airy  as  a  fay, 

Graceful  as  a  duchess ; 
Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is ; 
Vestris  never  showed 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's  ; 
Braided  is  her  hair, 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist, 

Comfortably  bodiced. 


51 


52  PEG    OF    LIMAVADDY. 

This  I  do  declare, 

Happy  is  the  laddy 
Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy ; 
Married  if  she  were, 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  land  of  Paddy ; 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

Citizen  or  Squire, 

Tory,  Whig,  or  Radi- 
cal would  all  desire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Had  I  Homer's  fire, 

Or  that  of  Serjeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I'd  admire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
And  till  I  expire, 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy ! 


MAY  DAY  ODE. 


But  yesterday  a  naked  sod, 

The  dandies  sneered  from  Rotten  Row, 
And  cantered  o'er  it  to  and  fro  ; 

And  see,  'tis  done  ! 
As  though  'twere  by  a  wizard's  rod 
A  blazing  arch  of  lucid  glass 
Leaps  like  a  fountain  from  the  grass, 
To  meet  the  sun ! 

A  quiet  green  but  few  days  since, 
"With  cattle  browsing  in  the  shade, 
And  here  are  lines  of  bright  arcade 
In  order  raised ! 
A  palace,  as  for  fairy  Prince, 
A  rare  pavilion,  such  as  man 
Saw  never,  since  mankind  began 

And  built  and  glazed  ! 
5  *  (53) 


54  MAY    DAY    ODE. 

A  peaceful  place  it  was  but  now, 
And  lo  !  within  its  shining  streets 
A  multitude  of  nations  meets ; 

A  countless  throng, 
I  see  beneath  the  crystal  bow, 

And  Gaul  and  German,  Russ  and  Turk, 
Each  with  his  native  handiwork 

And  busy  tongue. 

I  felt  a  thrill  of  love  and  awe 

To  mark  the  different  garb  of  each  ; 
The  changing  tongue,  the  various  speech 
Together  blent. 
A  thrill,  methinks,  like  His  who  saw 
"  All  people  dwelling  upon  earth 
Praising  our  God  with  solemn  mirth 
And  one  consent." 

High  sovereign,  in  your  Royal  state, 
Captains,  and  chiefs,  and  councillors, 
Before  the  lofty  palace  doors 

Are  open  set; 
Hush !  ere  you  pass  the  shining  gate ; 
Hush !  ere  the  heaving  curtain  draws, 
And  let  the  Royal  pageant  pause 
A  moment  yet. 


MAY    DAY    ODE.  55 

People  and  prince  a  silence  keep ! 
Bow  coronet  and  kingly  crown, 
Helmet  and  plume,  bow  lowly  down, 

The  while  the  priest, 
Before  the  splendid  portal  step, 

(While  still  the  wondrous  banquet  stays,) 
From  Heaven  supreme  a  blessing  prays 
Upon  the  feast. 

Then  onwards  let  the  triumph  march ; 
Then  let  the  loud  artillery  roll, 
And  trumpets  ring,  and  joy-bells  toll, 
And  pass  the  gate. 
Pass  underneath  the  shining  arch, 

'Neath  which  the  leafy  elms  are  green ; 
Ascend  unto  your  throne,  O  queen ! 

And  take  your  state. 

Behold  her  in  her  Royal  place ; 
A  gentle  lady  ;  and  the  hand 
That  sways  the  sceptre  of  this  land, 

How  frail  and  weak ! 
Soft  is  the  voice,  and  fair  the  face, 

She  breathes  amen  to  prayer  and  hymn ; 
No  wonder  that  her  eyes  are  dim, 

And  pale  her  cheek. 


56  MAY    DAY    ODE. 

This  moment  round  her  empire's  shores 
The  winds  of  Austral  winter  sweep, 
And  thousands  lie  in  midnight  sleep, 
At  rest  to-day. 
0  !  awful  is  that  crown  of  yours, 
Queen  of  innumerable  realms, 
Sitting  beneath  the  budding  elms 

Of  English  May ! 

A  wondrous  sceptre  'tis  to  bear, 
Strange  mystery  of  God  which  set 
Upon  her  brow  yon  coronet,  — 

The  foremost  crown 
Of  all  the  world  on  one  so  fair  ! 
That  chose  her  to  it  from  her  birth, 
And  bade  the  sons  of  all  the  earth 

To  her  bow  down. 

The  representatives  of  man 
Here  from  the  far  Antipodes, 
And  from  the  subject  Indian  seas, 

In  Congress  meet ; 
From  Afric  and  from  Hindustan, 
From  Western  continent  and  isle, 
The  envoys  of  her  empire  pile 

Gifts  at  her  feet. 


MAY    DAY    ODE.  57 

Our  brethren  cross  the  Atlantic  tides, 
Loading  the  gallant  decks,  which  once 
Roared  a  defiance  to  our  guns, 

With  peaceful  store ; 
Symbol  of  peace,  their  vessel  rides  !  * 
O'er  English  waves  float  Star  and  Stripe, 
And  firm  their  friendly  anchors  gripe 
The  father  shore  ! 

From  Rhine  and  Danube,  Rhone  and  Seine, 
As  rivers  from  their  sources  gush, 
The  swelling  floods  of  nations  rush, 

And  seaward  pour : 
From  coast  to  coast  in  friendly  chain, 

With  countless  ships  we  bridge  the  straits, 
And  angry  ocean  separates 

Europe  no  more. 

From  Mississippi  and  from  Nile  — 

From  Baltic,  Ganges,  Bosphorus, 

In  England's  ark  assembled  thus 

Are  friend  and  guest. 
Look  down  the  mighty  sunlit  aisle, 

*  The  U.  S.  Frigate  St.  Lawrence. 


58  MAY   DAY    ODE. 

And  see  the  sumptuous  banquet  set, 
The  brotherhood  of  nations  met 

Around  the  feast ! 

Along  the  dazzling  colonnade, 
Far  as  the  straining  eye  can  gaze, 
Gleam  cross  and  fountain,  bell  and  vase, 
In  vistas  bright. 
And  statues  fair  of  nymph  and  maid, 
And  steeds  and  pards  and  Amazons, 
"Writhing  and  grappling  in  the  bronze, 
In  endless  fight. 

To  deck  the  glorious  roof  and  dome, 
To  make  the  Queen  a  canopy, 
The  peaceful  hosts  of  industry 

Their  standards  bear. 
Yon  are  the  works  of  Brahmin  loom ; 
On  such  a  web  of  Persian  thread 
The  desert  Arab  bows  his  head, 

And  cries  his  prayer. 

Look  yonder  where  the  engines  toil ; 
These  England's  arms  of  conquest  are, 
The  trophies  of  her  bloodless  war : 

Brave  weapons  these. 


MAY    DAY    ODE.  59 

Victorious  over  wave  and  soil, 

With  these  she  sails,  she  weaves,  she  tills, 
Pierces  the  everlasting  hills, 

And  spans  the  seas. 

The  engine  roars  upon  its  race, 

The  shuttle  whirrs  along  the  woof, 
The  people  hum  from  floor  to  roof. 

With  Babel  tongue. 
The  fountain  in  the  basin  plays, 
The  chanting  organ  echoes  clear, 
An  awful  chorus  'tis  to  hear, 

A  wondrous  song ! 

Swell,  organ,  swell  your  trumpet  blast, 
March,  Queen  and  Royal  pageant,  march 
By  splendid  aisle  and  springing  arch 

Of  this  fair  Hall ; 
And  see  !  above  the  fabric  vast, 

God's  boundless  Heaven  is  bending  blue, 
God's  peaceful  sunlight  is  beaming  through, 
Shines  over  all. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 


A  steeet  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Hue  Xcuve  des  pctits  Champs  its  name  is  — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields  ; 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case ; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is  — 
A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 
That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  muscles,  saffern, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach  and  dace ; 

All  these  you  eat  at  Tehee's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

(60) 


THE    BALLAD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE.  61 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  'tis ; 

And  true  philosophers,  me  thinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  ; 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter ;  nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray  ?  " 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder ;  — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race  ?  " 
"  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ? " 
6 


62  THE    BALLAD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE. 

"Oh,  oui,  Monsieur," 's  the  waiter's  answer; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?  " 
"  Tell  me  a  good  one."     "  That  I  can,  sir ; 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"  So  Tebbe's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place  ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 
Ah !  vanished  many  a  busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  Cari  luoghi, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter !   quick,  a  flagon  crusty  — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE.  63 

There's  Jack  lias  made  a  wondrous  marriage ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  Feed  in  the  Gazette  ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord !  The  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place  —  but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 

—  There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

*  *  # 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes ; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

—  Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE. 


Christmas  is  here ; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we ; 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom ; 
Night-birds  are  we ; 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing,  like  them, 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 


(64) 


THE    MAHOGANY    TREE.  65 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit ; 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short  — 
When  we  are  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be ! 
Drink,  every  one ; 
Pile  up  the  coals, 
Fill  the  red  bowls, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 
6*  E 


66  THE    MAHOGANY    TREE. 

Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up ; 
Empty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue- devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree. 


THE  YANKEE  VOLUNTEERS. 


["A  surgeon  of  the  United  States  army  says,  that  on  inquiring  of  the  Captain 
of  his  company,  he  found  that  nine  tenths  of  the  men  had  enlisted  on  account  of 
some  female  difficulty."]  —  Morning  Paper. 

Ye  Yankee  volunteers ! 
It  makes  my  bosom  bleed 
When  I  your  story  read, 

Though  oft  'tis  told  one. 
So  —  in  both  hemispheres 
The  women  are  untrue, 
And  cruel  in  the  New, 

As  in  the  Old  one ! 

(67) 


68  THE    YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS. 

What  —  in  this  company 

Of  sixty  sons  of  Mars, 

Who  march  'ncath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  fife  and  horn, 
Nine  tenths  of  all  we  see 
Along  the  warlike  line 
Had  but  one  cause  to  join 

This  Hope  Forlorn? 

Deserters  from  the  realm 
Where  tyrant  Venus  reigns, 
You  slipped  her  wicked  chains, 

Fled  and  out-ran  her. 
And  now,  with  sword  and  helm, 
Together  banded  are 
Beneath  the  Stripe  and  Star- 
embroidered  banner  ! 

And  is  it  so  with  all 

The  warriors  ranged  in  line, 

With  lace  bedizened  fine      , 

And  swords  gold-hilted  — 
Yon  lusty  corporal, 
Yon  color-man  who  gripes 
The  flag  of  Stars  and  Stripes  — 

Has  each  been  jilted  ? 


THE    YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS.  69 

Come,  each  man  of  this  line, 
The  privates  strong  and  tall, 
"  The  pioneers  and  all," 

The  fifer  nimble  — 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
Captain  with  epaulets, 
And  Blacky  there,  who  beats 

The  clanging  cymbal  — 

O  cymbal-beating  black, 
Tell  us,  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Was  it  some  Lucy  Neal 

Who  caused  thy  ruin  ? 
O  nimble  fifing  Jack, 
And  drummer  making  din 
So  deftly  on  the  skin, 

With  thy  rat-tattooing. 

Confess,  ye  volunteers, 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
And  Captain  of  the  line, 

As  bold  as  Roman  — 
Confess,  ye  grenadiers, 
However  strong  and  tall, 
The  Conqueror  of  you  all 

Is  Woman,  Woman ! 


70  THE    YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS. 

No  corselet  is  so  proof, 

But  through  it  from  her  bow, 

The  shafts  that  she  can  throw 

Will  pierce  and  rankle. 
No  champion  e'er  so  tough, 
But's  in  the  struggle  thrown, 
And  tripped  and  trodden  down 

By  her  slim  ankle. 

Thus,  always  it  was  ruled, 
And  when  a  woman  smiled, 
The  strong  man  was  a  child, 

The  sage  a  noodle. 
Alcides  was  befooled, 
And  silly  Samson  shorn, 
Long,  long  ere  you  were  born, 

Poor  Yankee  Doodle  ! 


THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM. 


"I  am  Miss  Catherine's  book"  (the  Album  speaks); 
"  I've  lain  among  your  tomes  these  many  weeks  ; 
I'm  tired  of  their  old  coats  and  yellow  cheeks. 

"  Quick,  Pen  !  and  write  a  line  with  a  good  grace  ; 

Come  !  draw  me  off  a  funny  little  face  ; 

And,  prithee,  send  me  back  to  Chesham  Place." 

Pen. 

I  am  my  master's  faithful  old  Gold  Pen  ; 

I've  served  him  three  long  years,  and  drawn  since  then 

Thousands  of  funny  women  and  droll  men. 

0  Album  !  could  I  tell  you  all  his  ways 

And  thoughts,  since  I  am  his,  these  thousand  days, 

Lord,  how  your  pretty  pages  I'd  amaze  ! 

(71) 


72  the  pex  and  the  album. 

Album. 
His  ways  ?  his  thoughts  ?    Just  whisper  me  a  few  ; 
Tell  me  a  curious  anecdote  or  two, 
And  write  'em  quickly  off,  good  Mordan,  do  ! 

Pen. 

Since  he  my  faithful  service  did  engage 

To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage, 

I've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  and  page. 

Caricatures  I  scribbled  have,  and  rhymes, 
And  dinner  cards,  and  picture  pantomimes, 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 

I've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 

The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pain ; 

The  idle  word  that  he'd  wish  back  again. 

a-  #  % 

I've  helped  him  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread  ; 
To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head  ; 
And  make  your  laughter  when  his  own  heart  bled. 

I've  spoke  with  men  of  all  degree  and  sort  — 
Peers  of  the  land,  and  ladies  of  the  Court ; 
O,  but  I've  chronicled  a  deal  of  sport. 


THE    TEX    AND    THE    ALBUM.  73 

Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago, 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceased  to  flow, 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long  laid  low ; 

Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball, 
Tradesman's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account  due  Christinas  last  —  I've  answered  all. 

Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half- 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyan's  for  an  autograph; 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh, 

Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff, 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough, 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 

Day  after  day  the  labor's  to  be  done, 

And  sure  as  comes  the  postman  and  the  sun, 

The  indefatigable  ink  must  run. 

#  *  *  # 

Go  back,  my  pretty  little  gilded  tome, 
To  a  fair  mistress  and  a  pleasant  home, 
Where  soft  hearts  greet  us  whensoe'er  we  come. 

Dear,  friendly  eyes,  with  constant  kindness  lit, 
However  rude  my  verse,  or  poor  my  wit, 
Or  sad  or  gay  my  mood,  you  welcome  it. 

7 


74  THE    PEN    AND    THE    ALBUM. 

Kind  lady  !  till  my  last  of  lines  is  penned, 
My  master's  love,  grief,  laughter,  at  an  end, 
Whene'er  I  write  your  name,  may  I  write  friend ! 

Not  all  are  so  that  were  so  in  past  years ; 
Voices,  familiar  once,  no  more  he  hears  ; 
Names,  often  writ,  are  blotted  out  in  tears. 

So  be  it :  — joys  will  end  and  tears  will  dry  .  .  . 
Album !  my  master  bids  me  wish  good  by  ; 
He'll  send  you  to  your  mistress  presently. 

And  thus  with  thankful  heart  he  closes  you  ; 
Blessing  the  happy  hour  when  a  friend  he  knew 
So  gentle,  and  so  generous,  and  so  true. 

Nor  pass  the  words  as  idle  phrases  by ; 

Stranger  !  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 

Nor  signed  the  page  that  registered  a  lie. 


LUCY'S  BIRTHDAY. 


Seventeen  rosebuds  in  a  ring, 
Thick  with  sister  flowers  beset, 
In  a  fragrant  coronet, 
Lucy's  servants  this  day  bring. 
Be  it  the  birthday  wreath  she  wears 
Fresh  and  fair,  and  symbolling 
The  young  number  of  her  years, 
The  sweet  blushes  of  her  spring. 

Types  of  youth  and  love  and  hope  ! 
Friendly  hearts  your  mistress  greet, 
Be  you  ever  fair  and  sweet, 
And  grow  lovelier  as  you  ope ! 
Gentle  nursling,  fenced  about 
With  fond  care,  and  guarded  so, 
Scarce  you've  heard  of  storms  without, 
Frosts  that  bite,  or  winds  that  blow  ! 

(75) 


7G  lucy's  birthday. 

Kindly  has  your  life  begun, 
And  we  pray  that  Heaven  may  send 
To  our  floweret  a  warm  sun, 
A  calm  summer,  a  sweet  end. 
And  where'er  shall  be  her  home, 
May  she  decorate  the  place ; 
Still  expanding  into  bloom, 
And  developing  in  grace. 


THE   CANE-BOTTOMED   CHAIR. 


In  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  trie  bars, 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 

But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure ; 

And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 

Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  crammed  in  all  nooks, 
With  worthless  old  knickknacks  and  silly  old  books, 
And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Cracked   bargains    from    brokers,    cheap    keepsakes 
from  friends. 

7  *  (77) 


78  THE    CANE-BOTTOMED    CHAIR. 

Old  armor,  prints,  pictures,  pipes,  china,  (all  cracked,) 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed; 

A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see  ; 

What  matter  ?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  sultan  require, 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire ; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp  ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp  ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  ; 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,   and  the  night,   and  the 

chimes, 
Here  we  talk    of   old   books,   and  old  friends,  and  old 

times  ; 
As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best ; 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 


THE    CANE-BOTTOMED    CHAIR.  79 

'Tis  a  bandy-legged,  high-shouldered,  worm-eaten  seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottomed  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling,  in  holding  such  charms, 

A   thrill  must  have  passed  through  your  withered  old 

arms  ; 
I  looked,  and  I  longed,  and  I  wished  in  despair  ; 
I  wished  myself  turned  to  a  cane-bottomed  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place  ; 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face  ! 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  she   sat  there,   and  bloomed  in  my  cane-bottomed 
chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince ; 

Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare, 

The  queen  of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company's  gone, 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone  — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair  — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 


80  THE    CANE-BOTTOMED    CHAIR. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair ; 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 


PISCATOR  AND  PISCATRIX. 

LINES   WRITTEN  TO   AN   ALBUM  PEINT. 


As  on  this  pictured  page  I  look, 
This  pretty  tale  of  line  and  hook, 
As  though  it  were  a  novel-book, 

Amuses  and  engages  ; 
I  know  them  both,  the  boy  and  girl ; 
She  is  the  daughter  of  the  Earl, 
The  lad  (that  has  his  hair  in  curl,) 

My  lord  the  County's  page  is. 

A  pleasant  place  for  such  a  pair  ; 
The  fields  lie  basking  in  the  glare  ; 
Xo  breath  of  wind  the  heavy  air 

Of  lazy  summer  quickens. 
Hard  by,  you  see  the  castle  tall ; 
The  village  nestles  round  the  wall, 
As  round  about  the  hen,  its  small 

Young  progeny  of  chickens. 


82  PISCATOR    AND    PISCATRIX. 

It  is  too  hot  to  pace  the  keep  ; 
To  climb  the  turret  is  too  steep  ; 
My  lord  the  Earl  is  dosing  deep, 

His  noonday  dinner  over ; 
The  postern- warder  is  asleep, 
(Perhaps  they've  bribed  him  not  to  peep,) 
And  so  from  out  the  gate  they  creep, 

And  cross  the  fields  of  clover. 

Their  lines  into  the  brook  they  launch ; 
He  lays  his  cloak  upon  a  branch, 
To  guarantee  his  Lady  Blanche 

's  delicate  complexion : 
He  takes  his  rapier  from  his  haunch, 
That  beardless  doughty  champion  staunch  ; 
He'd  drill  it  through  the  rival's  paunch 

That  questioned  his  affection  ! 

O  heedless  pair  of  sportsmen  slack ! 
You  never  mark,  though  trout  or  jack, 
Or  little  foolish  tickleback, 

Your  baited  snares  may  capture. 
What  care  has  she  for  line  and  hook  ? 
She  turns  her  back  upon  the  brook, 
Upon  her  lover's  eyes  to  look 

In  sentimental  rapture. 


PISCATOE.   AND    PISCATRIX.  83 

0  loving  pair  !  as  thus  I  gaze 
Upon  the  girl  who  smiles  always, 
The  little  hand  that  ever  plays 

Upon  the  lover's  shoulder; 
In  looking  at  your  pretty  shapes, 
A  sort  of  envious  wish  escapes 
(Such  as  the  fox  had  for  the  grapes) 

The  poet,  your  beholder. 

To  be  brave,  handsome,  twenty-two  ; 
With  nothing  else  on  earth  to  do, 
But  all  day  long  to  bill  and  coo  ; 

It  were  a  pleasant  calling. 
And  had  I  such  a  partner  sweet  ; 
A  tender  heart  for  mine  to  beat, 
A  gentle  hand  my  clasp  to  meet ;  — 
I'd  let  the  world  flow  at  my  feet, 

And  never  heed  its  brawling. 


ROXSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 


u  Quand  tous  serez  bien  vieille,  le  soir  a  la  cbandelle 
Assise  aupres  du  feu  devisant  et  filant 
Direz,  cbantant  mes  vers  en  vous  esnierveillant, 
Ronsard  m'a  celebre  du  temps  que  j"etois  bolle." 

Some  winter  night,  shut  snugly  in 

Beside  the  fagot  in  the  hall, 
I  think  I  see  you  sit  and  spin, 

Surrounded  by  your  maidens  all. 
Old  tales  are  told,  old  songs  are  sung, 

Old  days  come  back  to  memory ; 
You  say,  "  When  I  was  fair  and  young. 

A  poet  sang  of  me!" 

There's  not  a  maiden  in  your  hall, 

Though  tired  and  sleepy  ever  so, 

But  wakes,  as  you  my  name  recall, 

And  longs  the  history  to  know. 

(84) 


RONSARD    TO    HIS    MISTRESS.  85 

And  as  the  piteous  tale  is  said, 

Of  lady  cold  and  lover  true, 
Each,  musing,  carries  it  to  bed, 

And  sighs  and  envies  you  ! 

"  Our  lady's  old  and  feeble  now," 

They'll  say ;  "  she  once  was  fresh  and  fair  ; 
And  yet  she  spurned  her  lover's  vow, 

And  heartless  left  him  to  despair  ; 
The  lover  lies  in  silent  earth 

No  kindly  mate  the  lady  cheers  ; 
She  sits  beside  a  lonely  hearth, 

With  threescore  and  ten  years  !  " 

Ah !  dreary  thoughts  and  dreams  are  those  ! 

But  wherefore  yield  me  to  despair, 
While  yet  the  poet's  bosom  glows, 

While  yet  the  dame  is  peerless  fair ! 
Sweet  lady  mine  !  while  yet  'tis  time 

Requite  my  passion  and  my  truth, 
And  gather  in  their  blushing  prime 

The  roses  of  your  youth  ! 


AT.  THE   CHURCH    GATE. 


Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover  ; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They've  hushed  the  minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell ; 

She's  coming,  she's  coming  ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 
And  hastening  hither, 

(86) 


AT    THE    CHURCH    GATE.  87 

"With  modest  eyes  downcast : 
She  comes  —  she's  here,  she's  past  — 
May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly ; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  Heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  AGE   OF   WISDOM. 


Ho,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win, 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin,  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer  ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybcll's  window  panes,  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year ! 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  — 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

(88) 


THE    AGE    OF    WISDOM.  89 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray, 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  past  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 
The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 

May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 

Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier  ; 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne ! 
Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 
Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


Werthek  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


';-> 


Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

(90) 


SORROWS    OF    WEETHEE.  9] 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


THE  LAST  OF  MAY. 

(in  reply  to  ax  invitation  dated  on  the  1st.) 


By  fate's  benevolent  award, 

Should  I  survive  the  day, 
I  '11  drink  a  bumper  with  my  lord 

Upon  the  last  of  May. 

That  I  may  reach  that  happy  time 

The  kindly  gods  I  pray, 
For  are  not  ducks  and  peas  in  prime 

Upon  the  last  of  May  ? 

At  thirty  boards,  'twixt  now  and  then, 
My  knife  and  fork  shall  play, 

But  better  wine  and  better  men^ 
I  shall  not  meet  in  May. 

(92) 


THE    LAST    OF    MAY. 


93 


And  though,  good  friend,  with  whom  I  dine, 

Your  honest  beard  is  gray, 
And  like  this  grizzled  head  of  mine, 

Has  seen  its  last  of  May, 

Yet,  with  a  heart  that's  ever  kind, 

A  gentle  spirit  gay, 
You've  spring  perennial  in  your  mind  ! 

And  round  you  make  a  May  ! 


LOVE  SONGS  MADE  EASY. 


WHAT  MAKES  MY  HEART  TO  THRILL  AND  GLOW? 

THE  MAY  FAIR  LOVE  SONG. 

Winter  and  summer,  night  and  morn, 
I  languish  at  this  table  dark  ; 

My  office  window  has  a  corn- 
er looks  into  St.  James's  Park. 

I  hear  the  foot-guard's  bugle  horn, 
Their  tramp  upon  parade  I  mark  ; 

I  am  a  gentleman  forlorn, 
I  am  a  Foreign  Office  Clerk. 

(94) 


LOVE    SOXGS    MADE    EASY.  95 

My  toils,  my  pleasures,  every  one, 

I  find  are  stale,  and  dull,  and  slow ; 
And  yesterday,  when  work  was  done, 

I  felt  myself  so  sad  and  low, 
I  could  have  seized  a  sentry's  gun 

My  wearied  brains  out,  out  to  blow. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  ? 

What  makes  my  heart  to  beat  and  glow  ? 

My  notes  of  hand  are  burnt,  perhaps  ? 

Some  one  has  paid  my  tailor's  bill  ? 
No  ;  every  morn  the  tailor  raps  ; 

My  I  O  U's  are  extant  still. 
I  still  am  prey  of  debt  and  dun  ; 

My  elder  brother's  stout  and  well. 
"What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  ? 

"What  makes  my  heart  to  glow  and  swell  ? 

I  know  my  chief's  distrust  and  hate  ; 

He  says  I'm  lazy,  and  I  shirk. 
Ah !  had  I  genius  like  the  late 

Right  Honorable  Edmund  Burke. 
My  chance  of  all  promotion's  gone, 

I  know  it  is,  he  hates  me  so. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run, 

And  all  my  heart  to  swell  and  glow  ? 


96  LOVE    SOXGS    MADE    EASY. 

"Why,  why  is  all  so  bright  and  gay  ? 

There  is  no  change,  there  is  no  cause  ; 
My  office  time  I  found  to-day 

Disgusting  as  it  ever  was. 
At  three,  I  went  and  tried  the  clubs, 

And  yawned  and  sauntered  to  and  fro  ; 
And  now  my  heart  jumps  up  and  throbs, 

And  all  my  soul  is  in  a  glow. 

At  half-past  four  I  had  the  cab ; 
I  drove  as  hard  as  I  could  go. 

The  London  sky  was  dirty  drab, 
And  dirty  brown  the  London  snow. 

And  as  I  rattled  in  a  cant- 
er down  by  dear  old  Bolton  Row, 

A  something  made  my  heart  to  pant, 

And  caused  my  cheek  to  flush  and  glow. 

What  could  it  be  that  made  me  find 

Old  Jawkins  pleasant  at  the  club  ? 
"Why  was  it  that  I  laughed  and  grinned 

At  whist,  although  I  lost  the  rub  ? 
What  was  it  made  me  drink  like  mad 

Thirteen  small  glasses  of  Curaco  ? 
That  made  my  inmost  heart  so  glad, 

And  every  fibre  thrill  and  glow  ? 


LOVE    SONGS    MADE    EASY.  97 

She's  home  again  !  she's  home,  she's  home  ! 
•    Away  all  cares,  and  griefs  and  pain  ; 
I  knew  she  would —  she's  back  from  Rome  ; 

She's  home  again  !  she's  home  again  ! 
"  The  family's  gone  abroad,"  they  said, 

September  last  —  they  told  me  so  ; 
Since  then  my  lonely  heart  is  dead, 

My  blood  I  think's  forgot  to  flow. 

She's  home  again !  away  all  care  ! 

O,  fairest  form  the  world  can  show ! 
O,  beaming  eyes  !  O,  golden  hair  ! 

0,  tender  voice,  that  breathes  so  low  ! 
O,  gentlest,  softest,  purest  heart ! 

O,  joy,  O,  hope  !  —  "  My  tiger,  ho  !  " 
Fitz-  Clarence  said  :  we  saw  him  start  — 

He  galloped  down  to  Bolton  Row. 
9  a 


98  LOVE    SONGS    MADE    EASY. 


THE  GHAZUL,   OR  ORIENTAL   LOVE  SONG. 
THE    ROCKS. 

I  was  a  timid  little  antelope  ; 

My  home  was  in  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  saw  the  hunters  scouring  on  the  plain ; 
I  lived  among  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  was  a- thirsty,  in  the  summer  heat ; 

I  ventured  to  the  tents  beneath  the  rocks. 

Zuleikah  brought  me  water  from  the  well ; 
Since  then  I  have  been  faithless  to  the  rocks. 

I  saw  her  face  reflected  in  the  well ; 

Her  camels  since  have  marched  into  the  rocks. 

I  looked  to  see  her  image  in  the  well ; 
I  only  see  my  eyes,  my  own  sad  eyes. 
My  mother  is  alone  among  the  rocks. 


LOTE    SONGS    MADE    EASY.  99 


THE    MEEEY    BAKD. 

Zuleikah  !  The  young  Agas  in  the  bazaar  are  slim- 
waisted  and  wear  yellow  slippers.  I  am  old  and  hideous. 
One  of  my  eyes  is  out,  and  the  hairs  of  my  beard  are 
mostly  gray.     Praise  be  to  Allah !     I  am  a  merry  bard. 

There  is  a  bird  upon  the  terrace  of  the  Emir's  chief 
wife.  Praise  be  to  Allah !  He  has  emeralds  on  his  neck, 
and  a  ruby  tail.  I  am  a  merry  bard.  He  deafens  me 
with  his  diabolical  screaming. 

There  is  a  little  brown  bird  in  the  basket-maker's  cage. 
Praise  be  to  Allah !  He  ravishes  my  soul  in  the  moon- 
light.    I  am  a  merry  bard. 

The  peacock  is  an  Aga,  but  the  little  bird  is  a  Bulbul. 

I  am  a  little  brown  Bulbul.  Come  and  listen  in  the 
moonlight.     Praise  be  to  Allah !     I  am  a  merry  bard. 


100  LOVE    SOXGS    MADE    EASY. 


THE    CAIQUE. 

Yonder  to  the  kiosk,  beside  the  creek, 

Paddle  the  swift  caique. 

Thou  brawny  oarsman  with  the  sun-burnt  cheek, 

Quick  !  for  it  soothes  my  heart  to  hear  the  Bulbul  speak  ! 

Ferry  me  quickly  to  the  Asian  shores, 

Swift  bending  to  your  oars. 

Beneath  the  melancholy  sycamores, 

Hark !  what  a  ravishing  note  the  love-lorn  Bulbul  pours. 

Behold,  the  boughs  seem  quivering  with  delight, 

The  stars  themselves  more  bright, 

As  'mid  the  waving  branches  out  of  sight 

The  Lover  of  the  Hose  sits  singing  through  the  night. 

Under  the  boughs  I  sat  and  listened  still ; 

I  could  not  have  my  fill. 

"  How  comes,"  I  said,  "  such  music  to  his  bill  r  . 

Tell  mc  for  whom  he  sings  so  beautiful  a  trill." 


LOVE    SOXGS    MADE    EASY.  101 

"  Once  I  was  dumb,"  then  did  the  Bird  disclose, 
"  But  looked  upon  the  Rose  ; 
And  in  the  garden  where  the  loved  one  grows, 
I  straightway  did  begin  sweet  music  to  compose." 

"  O  bird  of  song,  there's  one  in  this  caique 
The  Rose  would  also  seek, 
So  he  might  learn  like  you  to  love  and  speak." 
Then  answered  me  the  bird  of  dusky  beak, 
"  The  Rose,  the  Rose  of  Love,  blushes  on  Leilah's  cheek." 
9* 


FOUR  GERMAN   DITTIES. 


A  TRAGIC   STORY. 

BY   ADELBERT  VOX    CHAMISSO. 

" 's  war  Einer,  dem's  zu  Herzen  gieng." 

There  lived  a  sage  in  days  of  yore, 
And  he  a  handsome  pigtail  wore  ; 
But  wondered  much,  and  sorrowed  more, 
Because  it  hung  behind  him. 

He  mused  upon  this  curious  case, 

And  swore  he'd  change  the  pigtail's  place, 

And  have  it  hanging  at  his  face, 

Not  dangling  there  behind  him. 

Says  he,  "  The  mystery  I've  found ; 
I'll  turn  me  round."     He  turned  him  round, 
But  still  it  hung  behind  him. 

(102) 


THE    CHAPIET.  103 

Then  round  and  round,  and  out  and  in, 
All  day  the  puzzled  sage  did  spin ; 
In  vain  —  it  mattered  not  a  pin  — 

The  pigtail  hung  behind  him. 

And  right  and  left,  and  round  about, 
And  up  and  down,  and  in  and  out, 
He  turned  ;  but  still  the  pigtail  stout 
Hung  steadily  behind  him. 

And  though  his  efforts  never  slack, 

And  though  he  twist,  and  twirl,  and  tack, 

Alas  !  still  faithful  to  his  back, 

The  pigtail  hangs  behind  him. 


THE    CHAPLET. 

FROM  TJHLAND. 
"  Es  pfllickte  Bliimlein  manigfalt." 

A  eittle  girl  through  field  and  wood 
Went  plucking  flowerets  here  and  there, 

When  suddenly  beside  her  stood 
A  lady,  wondrous  fair. 


104 


THE    CHAPEET. 


The  lovely  lady  smiled,  and  laid 
A  wreath  upon  the  maiden's  brow ; 

"  Wear  it,  'twill  blossom  soon,"  she  said, 
"Although  'tis  leafless  now." 

The  little  maiden  older  grew, 

And  wandered  forth  of  moonlight  eves, 
And  sighed  and  loved,  as  maids  will  do  ; 

When,  lo !  her  wreath  bore  leaves. 


Then  was  our  maid  a  wife,  and  hun°- 
Upon  a  joyful  bridegroom's  bosom; 

When  from  the  garland's  leaves  there  sprung 
Fair  store  of  blossom. 

And  presently  a  baby  fair 

Upon  her  gentle  breast  she  reared ; 
When  'midst  the  wreath  that  bound  her  hair. 

Rich  golden  fruit  appeared. 

But  when  her  love  lay  cold  in  death, 
Sunk  in  the  black  and  silent  tomb, 

All  sere  and  withered  was  the  wreath 
That  wont  so  bright  to  bloom. 


THE    KING    ON    THE    TOWER.  105 

Yet  still  the  withered  wreath  she  wore ; 

She  wore  it  at  her  dying  hour ; 
When,  lo  !  the  wondrous  garland  bore 

Both  leaf,  and  fruit,  and  flower ! 


THE  KING  ON  THE  TOWER. 


"  Da  liegen  sie  alle,  die  grauen  Hohen." 

The  cold  gray  hills  they  bind  me  around 
The  darksome  valleys  lie  sleeping  below, 

But  the  winds  as  they  pass  o'er  all  this  ground 
Bring  me  never  a  sound  of  woe ! 

O  !  for  all  I  have  suffered  and  striven, 

Care  has  imbittered  my  cup  and  my  feast ; 

But  here  is  the  night  and  the  dark  blue  heaven, 
And  my  soul  shall  be  at  rest. 

0  golden  legends  writ  in  the  skies  ! 

I  turn  towards  you  with  longing  soul, 
And  list  to  the  awful  harmonies 

Of  the  Spheres  as  on  they  roll. 


106  TO    A    VERY    OLD    WOMAN. 

My  hair  is  gray  and  my  sight  nigh  gone  ; 

My  sword  it  rustcth  upon  the  wall ; 
Right  have  I  spoken,  and  right  have  I  done 

When  shall  I  rest  me  once  for  all  ? 

O  blessed  rest !     0  royal  night ! 

Wherefore  seemeth  the  time  so  long 
Till  I  see  yon  stars  in  their  fullest  light, 

And  list  to  their  loudest  song  ? 


TO  A  VERY  OLD  WOMAN. 

LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 
"Und  Du  gingst  einst,  die  Myrt'  im  Haare." 

And  thou  wert  once  a  maiden  fair, 

A  blushing  virgin,  warm  and  young, 
With  myrtles  wreathed  in  golden  hair, 
And  glossy  brow  that  knew  no  care  — 
Upon  a  bridegroom's  arm  you  hung. 

The  golden  locks  are  silvered  now, 

The  blushing  cheek  is  pale  and  wan ; 


TO    A    TEKY    OLD    WOMAN. 

The  spring  may  bloom.,  the  autumn  glow, 
All's  one  —  in  chimney  corner  thou 
Sitt'st  shivering  on. 

A  moment  —  and  thou  sink'st  to  rest ! 
To  wake,  perhaps  an  angel  blest, 

In  the  bright  presence  of  thy  Lord. 
O,  weary  is  life's  path  to  all ! 
Hard  is  the  strife,  and  light  the  fall, 

But  wondrous  the  reward  ! 


107 


108  IMITATION'    OF    HORACE. 


IMITATION  OF  HORACE. 


TO  HIS  SERVING  BOY. 

Pcrsicos  odi, 
Puer,  apparatus ; 
Displiccnt  nexae 
Philyra  corona? : 
Mitte  sectari 
Rosa  quo  locorum. 
Sera  moretur. 

Simplici  myrto 
Nihil  allabores 
Sedulus  cura : 
Nequc  te  ministrum 
Dedccet  myrtus, 
Neque  me  sub  arcta 
Yite  bibentem. 


IMITATION    OF    HORACE.  109 


AD  MINISTRAM. 

Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is, 

I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  : 
Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 

Were  never  intended  for  us. 
No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 

Need  dangle  behind  my  arm  chair ; 
And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 

Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 

I  prithee  get  ready  at  three ; 
Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 

And  what  better  meat  can  there  be  ? 
And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 

'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  maid ; 
Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 
10 


AN  OLD  FRIEND  WITH  A  NEW   FACE.* 


THE  KNIGHTLY  GUERDON. 

Untrue  to  my  Ulric  I  never  could  be, 

I  vow  by  the  saints  and  the  blessed  Marie. 

Since  the  desolate  hour  when  we  stood  by  the  shore. 

And  your  dark  galley  waited  to  carry  you  o'er, 

*  Wapfing  Old  Stairs. 
"  Your  Molly  has  never  been  false,  she  declares, 
Since  the  last  time  we  parted  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs ; 
When  I  said  that  I  would  continue  the  same, 
And  gave  you  the  'bacca-box  marked  with  my  name. 
When  I  passed  a  fortnight  between  decks  with  you, 
Did  I  e'er  give  a  kiss,  Tom,  to  one  of  your  crew  ? 
To  be  useful  and  kind  to  my  Thomas,  I  staid, 
For  his  trowsers  I  washed,  and  his  grog  too  I  made. 

"  Though  you  promised  last  Sunday  to  walk  in  the  Mall 
With  Susan  from  Dcptford  and  likewise  with  Sail, 

(110) 


AX    OLD    ERIEND    WITH    A    NEW    FACE.  Ill 

My  faith  then  I  plighted,  my  love  I  confessed, 

As  I  gave  you  the  battle-axe  marked  with  your  crest ! 

When  the  bold  barons  met  in  my  father's  old  hall, 
Was  not  Edith  the  flower  of  the  banquet  and  ball  ? 
In  the  festival  hour,  on  the  lips  of  your  bride, 
Was  there  ever  a  smile  save  with  thee  at  my  side  ? 
Alone  in  my  turret  I  loved  to  sit  best, 
To  blazon  your  banxee,  and  broider  your  crest. 

The  knights  were  assembled,  the  tourney  was  gay ! 
Sir  Ulric  rode  first  in  the  warrior  melee. 
In  the  dire  battle-hour,  when  the  tourney  was  done, 
And  you  gave  to  another  the  wreath  you  had  won  ! 
Though  I  never  reproached  thee,  cold,  cold  was  my  breast, 
As  I  thought  of  that  battle-axe,  ah !  and  that  crest ! 

But  away  with  remembrance,  no  more  will  I  pine 
That  others  usurped  for  a  time  what  was  mine  ! 


In  silence  I  stood  your  unkindness  to  hear, 

And  only  upbraided  my  Tom  with  a  tear. 

Why  should  Sail,  or  should  Susan,  than  me  be  more  prized  i 

For  the  heart  that  is  true,  Tom,  should  ne'er  be  despised ; 

Then  be  constant  and  kind,  nor  your  Molly  forsake  ; 

Still  your  trowsers  I'll  wash,  and  your  grog  too  I'll  make." 


112  THE    ALMACK  S    ADIEU. 

There's  a  Festival  hour  for  my  Ulric  and  me ; 
Once  more,  as  of  old,  shall  he  bend  at  my  knee ; 
Once  more  by  the  side  of  the  knight  I  love  best 
Shall  I  blazon  his  banner  and  broider  his  crest. 


THE  ALMACK'S    ADIEU. 

Your  Fanny  was  never  false-hearted, 

And  this  she  protests  and  she  vows, 
From  the  triste  moment  when  we  parted 

On  the  staircase  of  Devonshire  House  ! 
I  blushed  when  you  asked  me  to  marry, 

I  vowed  I  would  never  forget ; 
And  at  parting  I  gave  my  dear  Harry 

A  beautiful  vinegarette ! 

We  spent  era  province  all  December, 

And  I  ne'er  condescended  to  look 
At  Sir  Charles,  or  the  rich  county  member, 

Or  even  at  that  darling  old  Duke. 
You  were  busy  with  dogs  and  with  horses, 

Alone  in  my  chamber  I  sat, 
And  made  you  the  nicest  of  purses, 

And  the  smartest  black  satin  cravat ! 


THE    AIMACK  S    ADIEU.  113 

At  night  with  that  vile  Lady  Frances 

(Je  faisois  moi  tapisserie^) 
You  danced  every  one  of  the  dances, 

And  never  once  thought  of  poor  me ! 
Mon  pauvre  petit  cocur  !  what  a  shiver 

I  felt  as  she  danced  the  last  set, 
And  you  gave,  O,  mon  Dieu !  to  revive  her, 

My  beautiful  vincgarette  ! 

Return,  love  !  away  with  coquetting  ; 

This  flirting  disgraces  a  man ! 
And  ah !  all  the  while  you're  forgetting 

The  heart  of  your  poor  little  Fan  ! 
Reviens  !  break  away  from  those  Circes, 

Reviens,  for  a  nice  little  chat ; 
And  I've  made  you  the  sweetest  of  purses, 

And  a  lovely  black  satin  cravat ! 
10*  H 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ST.   SOPHIA  OF  KIOFF. 


AX  EPIC   POEM,   IX   TWENTY   BOOKS. 


The  poet  describes 
the  city  and  spell- 
ing of  Kiew,  Kioff,  j 
or  Kiova. 

A  thousand  years  ago,  or  more, 

A  city  rilled  with  burghers  stout, 

And  girt  with  ramparts  round  about, 
Stood  on  the  rocky  Dnieper  shore. 
In  armor  bright,  by  day  and  night, 

The  sentries  they  paced  to  and  fro. 
"Well  guarded  and  walled  was  this  town,  and  called 

By  different  names,  I'd  have  you  to  know ; 
For  if  you  looks  in  the  g'ography  books, 
In  those  dictionaries  the  name  it  varies, 
And  they  write  it  off  Kieff  or  Kioff, 
Kiova  or  Kiow. 

(114) 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  115 

Its  buildings,  pub- 
lic works,  and  ordi- 
jj  nances,  religious 

and  civil. 

Thus  guarded  without  by  wall  and  redoubt, 

Kiova  within  was  a  place  of  renown, 
With  more  advantages  than  in  those  dark  ages 

Were  commonly  known  to  belong  to  a  town. 
There  wrere  places  and  squares,  and  each  year  four  fairs, 
And  regular  aldermen,  and  regular  lord  mayors ; 
And  streets,  and  alleys,  and  a  bishop's  palace ; 
And  a  church  with  clocks,  for  the  orthodox  — 
With  clocks  and  with  spires,  as  religion  desires ; 
And  beadles  to  whip  the  bad  little  boys 
Over  their  poor  little  corduroys, 
In  service  time,  when  they  didn't  make  a  noise ; 
And  a  chapter  and  dean,  and  a  cathedral  green 
With  ancient  trees,  underneath  whose  shades 
Wandered  nice  young  nursery  maids. 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  ding-ding-a-ring-ding, 
The  bells  they  made  a  merry,  merry  ring, 
From  the  tall,  tall  steeple  ;  and  all  the  people 
(Except  the  Jews)  came  and  filled  the  pews  — 
Poles,  Russians,  and  Germans, 

The  poet  shows  how 

To  hear  the  sermons  a  certain  priest 

Which  Hyacinth    preached    to  those  d™ltatK5off>* 

1  godly  clergyman, 

Germans  and  Poles,  and  one  that 

preached  rare  good 

For  the  safety  of  their  souls.      sermons. 


1  1 G  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 


How  this  priest  was 

short,  and  fat  of  HI- 

body ; 

A  worthy  priest  he  was,  and  a  stout  — 
You've  seldom  looked  on  such  a  one ; 

For,  though  he  fasted  thrice  in  a  week, 

Yet  nevertheless  his  skin  was  sleek ; 

His  waist  it  spanned  two  yards  about, 
And  he  weighed  a  score  of  stone. 


And  like  unto  the 

author  of  "  Plym-  j,r 

ley's  Letters." 

A  worthy  priest  for  fasting  and  prayer, 
And  mortification  most  deserving, 

And  as  for  preaching,  beyond  compare ; 

He'd  exert  his  powers  for  three  or  four  hours, 

With  greater  pith  than  Sidney  Smith, 
Or  the  Reverend  Edward  Irving. 

Of  what  convent  he 

was  prior,  and  when 

the  convent  was  "V. 

built. 

He  was  the  prior  of  Saint  Sophia, 

(A  Cockney  rhyme,  but  no  better  I  know)  — 

Of  St.  Sophia,  that  church  in  Kiow, 

Built  by  missionaries  I  can't  tell  when ; 
Who  by  their  discussions  converted  the  Russians, 

And  made  them  Christian  men. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  117 

Of  Saint  Sophia  of 
Kioff ;  and  how  her 
VI.  statue  miraculously 

travelled  thither. 

Sainted  Sophia  (so  the  legend  vows) 
With  special  favor  did  regard  this  house ; 

And  to  uphold  her  convert's  new  devotion, 
(Her  statue  needing  but  her  legs  for  her  ship) 
Walks  of  itself  across  the  German  ocean ; 
And  of  a  sudden  perches 
In  this  the  best  of  churches, 
Whither  all  Kiovites  come  and  pay  it  grateful  worship. 

And  how  Kioff 
y-j-j  should  have  been  a 

happy  city;  but  that 

Thus  with  her  patron  saints  and  pious  preachers, 

Recorded  here  in  catalogue  precise, 
A  goodly  city,  worthy  magistrates, 
You  would  have  thought  in  all  the  Russian  states 
The  citizens  the  happiest  of  all  creatures, 

The  town  itself  a  perfect  Paradise. 


VIII. 

Xo,  alas!    this  Well-built  city  Certain  wicked  Cos- 

.  .       ,   n  -,  sacks  did  besiege  it, 

W  as  in  a  perpetual  ndget ; 


For  the  Tartars,  without  pity, 
Did  remorselessly  besiege  it. 


118  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

Tartars  fierce,  with  swords  and  sabres, 
Huns  and  Turks,  and  such  as  these, 

Envied  much  their  peaceful  neighbors 
B}-  the  blue  Borysthcnes. 

Murdering  the       Down  they  came,  these  ruthless  Russians, 
From    their   steppes,   and   woods,    and 
fens, 
For  to  levy  contributions 
On  the  peaceful  citizens. 

Winter,  Summer,  Spring,  and  Autumn, 
Down  they  came  to  peaceful  Kioff, 

Killed   the   burghers  when   they   caught 
'em, 
If  their  lives  they  would  not  buy  off. 

Until  they  agreed   Till  the  city,  quite  confounded 

to  pay  a  tribute  ' 

ycariy.  By  the  ravages  they  made, 

Humbly  with  their  chief  compounded, 
And  a  yearly  tribute  paid ; 


How  they  paid       "Which  (because  their  courage  lax  was) 
thenFuddeni'y  Tne7  discharged  while  they  were  able 

refused  it,  Tolerated  thus  the  tax  was, 

Till  it  grew  intolerable. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  119 

And  the  Calmuc  envoy  sent,  To  the  wonder  of 

the  Cossack  envoy. 

As  before,  to  take  their  dues  all, 
Got,  to  his  astonishment, 
A  unanimous  refusal ! 

"Men  of  KiofF!"  thus  COUrageOUS       Of  a  mighty  gallant 
-r\-  i       i  speech 

Did    the    stout   lord-mayor    har- 
angue them, 
"  Wherefore  pay  these  sneaking  wages 
To  the  hectoring  Russians  ?  hang  them  ! 

"  Hark  !    I  hear  the  awful  cry  of  That  the  lord-mayor 

Our  forefathers  in  their  graves ; 
1  Fight,  ye  citizens  of  KiofF ! 
KiofF  was  not  made  for  slaves.' 

"  All  too  long  have  ye  betrayed  her ;  Exhorting  the 

-r,  tit  burghers  to  pay  no 

Kouse,  ye  men  and  aldermen,  longer. 

Send  the  insolent  invader  — 

Send  him  starving  back  again  !  " 


IX. 

He  spoke  and  he  sat  down ;  the  people  of  their  thanks  and 

n  ,-l      .  heroic  resolves. 

of  the  town, 


"Who  were  fired  with  a  brave  em- 
ulation, 


120  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EriC. 

Now   rose    with    one    accord,    and   voted 
thanks  unto  the  lord- 
Mayor  for  his  oration : 

They  dismiss  the     The   envoy  they  dismissed,  never  placing 

envoy,  and  set 

about  drilling.  in  his  fist 

So  much  as  a  single  shilling  ; 
And  all  with  courage  fired,  as  his  lordship 
he  desired, 
At  once  set  about  their  drilling. 


Of  the  city  guard :  Then  every  city  ward  established  a  guard, 

viz.,  militia,  dra- 

goons,  and  hum-  Diurnal  and  nocturnal ; 

madiers  and  their   Mmtia     Yoluntcer        U  ht     ^^q^     and 

commanders.  °  ° 

bombardiers, 
With  an  alderman  for  colonel. 


There  was  muster  and  roll-calls,  and  repair- 
ing city  walls, 
And  filling  up  of  fosses  : 
Of  the  majors  and  And  the  captains  and  the  majors,  so  gallant 

captains, 

and  courageous, 
A-riding  about  on  their  bosses. 


The  fortifications    To    be    guarded  at  all  hours    they  built 
themselves  watch-towers, 
With  every  tower  a  man  on ; 


THE    GKEAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  121 

And  surely  and  secure,  each  from  out  his  embrasure, 
Looked  down  the  iron  cannon  ! 

A  battle-song  was  writ  for  the  theatre,  where  it 

Was  sung  with  vast  energy 
And  rapturous  applause  ;  and  besides,  the  Of  the  conduct 

of  the  actors 
public  Cause  and  the  clergy. 

Was  supported  by  the  clergy. 

The  pretty  ladies'  maids  were  pinning  of  cockades, 

And  tying  on  of  sashes  ; 
And  dropping  gentle  tears,  while  their  lovers  blustered 
fierce, 

About  gun-shot  and  gashes  ; 

The  ladies  took  the  hint,  and  all  day  were  Of  the  ladies; 

scraping  lint, 

As  became  their  softer  genders ; 
And  got  bandages  and  beds  for  the  limbs  and  for  the  heads 

Of  the  city's  brave  defenders. 

The  men,  both  young  and  old,  felt  resolute  and  bold, 

And  panted  hot  for  glory  ; 
Even   the  tailors  'gan  to  brag,  and    em-  And,  finally,  of 

broidered  on  their  flag, 

"ATJT    WIXCEKE   AXJT    MORI." 
11 


122  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 


X. 

Of  the  Cossack       Seeing  the  city's  resolute  condition, 

chief, — hia 

stratagem;  The  Cossack  chief,  too  cunning  to  de- 

spise it, 
Said  to  himself,  "  Not  having  ammunition 
Wherewith  to  batter  the  place  in  proper  form, 
Some  of  these  nights  I'll  carry  it  by  storm, 
And  sudden  escalade  it  or  surprise  it. 

And  the  bur-         "  Let's    see,  however,  if  the    cits    stand 

ghers'  sillie 

victoria.  firmish." 

He  rode  up  to  the  city  gates ;  for  answers, 
Out  rushed  an  eager  troop  of  the  town  elite, 
And  straightway  did  begin  a  gallant  skirmish : 
The  Cossack  hereupon  did  sound  retreat, 

Leaving  the  victory  with  the  city  lancers. 

what  prisoners      They  took  two   prisoners,  and   as   many 

they  took,  x  J 

horses, 

And  the  whole  town  grew  quickly  so  elate 
With  this  small  victory  of  their  virgin  forces, 
That  they  did  deem  their  privates  and  commanders 
So  many  Cocsars,  Pompeys,  Alexanders, 

Napoleons,  or  Fredericks  the  Great. 


THE    GKEAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  123 


And  how  conceit- 


And  puffing  with  inordinate  conceit 

L  °  ed  they  were. 

They  utterly  despised  these  Cossack  thieves  ; 
And  thought  the  ruffians  easier  to  beat 
Than  porters  carpets  think,  or  ushers  boys. 
Meanwhile,  a  sly  spectator  of  their  joys, 

The  Cossack  captain  giggled  in  his  sleeves. 

"  Whene'er  you  meet  yon  stupid  city  hogs      chief,lhjs orders; 

(He  bade  his  troops  precise  this  order  keep), 
"  Don't  stand  a  moment  —  run  away,  you  dogs  !  " 
'Twas  done  ;  and  when  they  met  the  town  battalions, 
The  Cossacks,  as  if  frightened  at  their  valiance, 

Turned  tail,  and  bolted  like  so  many  sheep. 

They  fled,  obedient  to  their  captain's  order :      feigned  a  retreat. 

And  now  this  bloodless  siege  a  month  had  lasted, 
When,  viewing  the  country  round,  the  city  warder 
(Who,  like  a  faithful  weathercock,  did  perch 
Upon  the  steeple  of  Saint  Sophy's  church,) 

Sudden  his  trumpet  took,  and  a  mighty  blast  he  blasted. 


His  voice  it  might  be  heard  through  all  The  warder  pro- 

clayms  the  Coa- 

the   Streets  sacks' retreat,  and 

/TT  ,  ,  .  .  the  citie  greatly 

(He  was  a  warder  wondrous  strong  m  rejoyces. 
lung,) 
"  Victory,  victory  !  the  foe  retreats  !  " 


124  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

"  The  foe  retreats  !  "  each  cries  to  each  he  meets ; 
"  The  foe  retreats  !  "  each  in  his  turn  repeats. 

Gods  !  how  the  guns  did  roar,  and  how  the  joy- 
bells  rung  ! 

Arming  in  haste  his  gallant  city  lancers, 

The  Mayor,  to  learn  if  true  the  news  might  be, 

A  league  or  two  out  issued  with  his  prancers. 

The  Cossacks   (something  had  given    their  courage 
a  damper,) 

Hastened  their  flight,  and  'gan  like  mad  to  scamper  : 
Blessed  be  all  the  saints,  Kiova  town  was  free  ! 


XI. 

Now,  puffed  with  pride,  the  Mayor  grew  vain, 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 

the  slain. 
'Tis  true  he  might  amuse  himself  thus, 
And  not  be  very  murderous ; 
For  as  of  those  who  to  death  were  done 
The  number  was  exactly  none, 

His  lordship,  in  his  soul's  elation 
o  manner  Did  take  a  bloodless  recreation  — 

of  the  cities' 

rejoycings,  Going  home  again,  he  did  ordain 

A  very  splendid  cold  collation 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  125 

For  the  magistrates  and  the  corporation  ; 

Likewise  a  grand  illumination, 

For  the  amusement  of  the  nation. 

That  night  the  theatres  were  free, 

The  conduits  they  ran  Malvoisie  ; 

Each  house  that  night  did  beam  with  light 

And  sound  with  mirth  and  jollity  : 

But  shame,  O  shame  !  not  a  soul  in  the        And  its  impiety. 

town, 
Now  the  city  was  safe,  and  the  Cossacks  flown, 
Ever  thought  of  the  bountiful  saint  by  whose  care 

The  town  had  been  rid  of  these  terrible  Turks  — 
Said  even  a  prayer  to  that  patroness  fair, 

For  these  her  wondrous  works  !  IIow  the  Priest> 

Hyacinth,  waited 

Lord    Hyacinth   waited,    the    meekest    of      at  church,  and 

nobody  came 
priors thither. 

He  waited  at  church  with  the  rest  of  his  friars ; 
He  went  there  at  noon,  and  he  waited  till  ten, 
Expecting  in  vain  the  lord-mayor  and  his  men. 

He  waited  and  waited  from  mid-day  to  dark  ; 
But  in  vain  —  you  might  search  through  the  whole  of  the 

church, 
Not  a  layman,  alas  !  to  the  city's  disgrace, 
From  mid-day  to  dark  showed  his  nose  in  the  place. 

The  pew-woman,  organist,  beadle,  and  clerk, 
Kept  away  from  their  work,  and  were  dancing  like  mad 
11  * 


126  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

Away  in  the  streets  with  the  other  mad  people, 
Not  thinking  to  pray,  but  to  guzzle  and  tipple 
Wherever  the  drink  might  be  had. 


XII. 
IIow  he  went 

fmth  to  bid  them    Amidst  this  din  and  revelry  throughout  the 

to  prayers. 

city  roaring, 

The  silver  moon  rose  silently,  and  high  in  heaven 
soaring ; 

Prior  Hyacinth  was  fervently  upon  his  knees  adoring : 

"  Towards  my  precious  patroness  this  conduct  sure  un- 
fair is  ; 

I  cannot  think,  I  must  confess,  what  keeps  the  digni- 
taries 

And  our  good  mayor  away,  unless  some  business  them 
contraries." 

He  puts  his  long  white  mantle  on,  and  forth  the  prior 

sallies  — 
(His  pious  thoughts  were  bent  upon  good  deeds  and  not 

on  malice  : ) 
Heavens  !  how  the  banquet  lights  they  shone  about  the 

mayor's  palace  ! 
About  the  hall  the  scullions  ran  with  meats  both  fresh 

and  potted ; 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  127 

The   pages   came  with  cup   and  can,  all  for  the  guests 

allotted ; 
Ah,  how  they  jeered  that  good  fat  man  as     now  the  grooms 

and  lackeys  jeered 

up  the  stairs  he  trotted  !  him. 

He   entered  in   the  ante-rooms,  where  sat  the  mayor's 

court  in  ; 
He   found    a    pack    of    drunken    grooms    a-dicing   and 

a-sporting  ; 
The  horrid  wine  and   'bacco   fumes,  they  set   the    prior 

a- snorting ! 
The  prior  thought  he'd  speak  about   their  sins  before  he 

went  hence, 
And  lustily  began  to  shout  of  sin  and  of  repentance  ; 
The  rogues,  they  kicked  the  prior  out  before  he'd  done  a 

sentence  ! 


And  having  got  no  portion  small  of  buffet-  And  the  mayor, 

..  mayoress,   and 

ing  and  tussling,  aldermen,  being 

At  last  he  reached  the  banquet-hall,  where  ^ tochnreh    t0 

sat  the  mayor  a-guzzling, 

And  by  his  side  his  lady  tall,  dressed  out  in  white  sprig 

muslin. 

Around  the  table   in   a   ring  the  guests  were  drinking 

heavy ; 


128  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

They  drunk  the  church,  and  drunk  the  king,  and  the  army 

and  the  navy ; 
In  fact,  they'd  toasted  every  thing.     The  prior  said,  "  God 

save  ye ! " 

The  mayor  cried,  "  Bring  a  silver  cup  —  there's  one  upon 

the  beaufet ; 
And,  prior,  have  the  venison  up  —  it's  capital  rechauffe. 
And  so,  Sir  Priest,  you've  come  to  sup  r     And,  pray  you, 

how's  Saint  Sophy?  " 
The  prior's   face   quite  red  was   grown,  with  horror  and 

with  anger ; 
He  flung  the  proffered  goblet  down  —  it  made  a  hideous 

clangor  ; 
And  'gan  a-preaching  with  a  frown  —  he   was   a  fierce 

haranguer. 

He    tried    the  mayor    and    aldermen  —  they    all    set    up 

a-jeering: 
He    tried    the    common    councilmen  —  they    too    began 

a-sneering ; 
He  turned  towards  the  may'ress  then,  and  hoped  to  get 

a  hearing. 
He  knelt  and  seized  her  dinner  dress,  made  of  the  muslin 

snowry, 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  129 

"To   church,  to   church,  my  sweet  mistress!"  he  cried; 

"  the  way  I'll  show  ye." 
Alas,  the  lady-mayoress  fell  back  as  drunk  as  Chloe ! 


How  the  prior 

Out  from  this  dissolute  and  drunken  court     went  back  alone, 
"Went  the  good  prior,  his  eyes  with  weeping  dim : 

He  tried  the  people  of  a  meaner  sort  — 

They,  too,  alas  !  were  bent  upon  their  sport, 
And  not  a  single  soul  would  follow  him ! 

But  all  were  swigging  schnaps  and  guzzling  beer. 

He  found  the  cits,  their  daughters,  sons,  and  spouses 
Spending  the  live-long  night  in  fierce  carouses  : 

Alas  !  unthinking  of  the  danger  near  ! 
One  or  two  sentinels  the  ramparts  guarded, 

The  rest  were  sharing  in  the  general  feast : 
"  God  wot,  our  tipsy  town  is  poorly  warded ; 

Sweet  Saint  Sophia  help  us  !  "  cried  the  priest. 


Alone  he  entered  the  cathedral  gate, 

Careful  he  locked  the  mighty  oaken  door 

"Within  his  company  of  monks  did  wait, 
A  dozen  poor  old  pious  men  —  no  more. 

i 


130  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

0,  but  it  grieved  the  gentle  prior  sore, 
To  think  of  those  lost  souls,  given  up  to  drink  and  fate  ! 

And  shut  himself      The  mighty  outer  gate  well  barred  and  fast, 

into  Saint  Sophia's 

chapel  with  his  The  poor  old  friars  stirred    their  poor 

hrethren.  .  ..    , 

old  bones, 
And  pattering  swiftly  on  the  damp,  cold  stones, 

They  through  the  solitary  chancel  passed. 

The  chancel  walls  looked  black,  and  dim,  and  vast, 
And  rendered,  ghost-like,  melancholy  tones. 

Onward  the  fathers  sped,  till  coming  nigh  a 

Small  iron  gate,  the  which  they  entered  quick  at, 
They  locked  and  double-locked  the  inner  wicket, 

And  stood  within  the  chapel  of  Sophia. 

Vain  were  it  to  describe  this  sainted  place ; 
Vain  to  describe  that  celebrated  trophy, 
The  venerable  statue  of  Saint  Sophy, 

Which  formed  its  chiefest  ornament  and  grace. 

Here  the  good  prior,  his  personal  griefs  and  sorrows 
In  his  extreme  devotion  quickly  merging, 

At  once  began  to  pray  with  voice  sonorous  ; 

The  other  friars  joined  in  pious  chorus, 

And  passed  the  night  in  singing,  praying,  scourging, 
In  honor  of  Sophia,  that  sweet  virgin. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EEIC.  131 


XIV. 

Leaving  thus  the  pious  priest  in        The  ePisod9  of 

Sneezoff  and 

Humble  penitence  and  prayer,         Katinka. 
And  the  greedy  cits  a-feasting, 
Let  us  to  the  walls  repair. 

Walking  by  the  sentry-boxes, 

Underneath  the  silver  moon, 
Lo  !  the  sentry  boldly  cocks  his  — 

Boldly  cocks  his  musketoon. 

Sneezoff  was  Ins  designation, 

Fair-haired  boy,  for  ever  pitied ; 
For  to  take  his  cruel  station, 

He  but  now  Katinka  quitted. 

Poor  in  purse  were  both,  but  rich  in 

Tender  love's  delicious  plenties  ; 
She  a  damsel  of  the  kitchen, 

He  a  haberdasher's  'prentice. 

'Tinka,  maiden  tender-hearted, 

Was  dissolved  in  tearful  fits, 
On  that  fatal  night  she  parted 

From  her  darling,  fair-haired  Fritz. 


132  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    ETIC. 

Warm  her  soldier  lad  she  wrapt  in 

Comforter  and  muffetec ; 
Called  him  "  general  "  and  "  captain," 

Though  a  simple  private  he. 

"  On  your  bosom  wear  this  plaster, 
'Twill  defend  you  from  the  cold  ; 

In  your  pipe  smoke  this  canaster, 
Smuggled  'tis,  my  love,  and  old. 

"  All  the  night,  my  love,  I'll  miss  you.' 
Thus  she  spoke ;   and  from  the  door 

Fair-haired  Sneezoff  made  his  issue, 
To  return,  alas  !  no  more. 


He  it  is  who  calmly  walks  his 
Walk  beneath  the  silver  moon ; 

He  it  is  who  boldly  cocks  his 
Detonating  musketoon. 


He  the  bland  canaster  puffing, 
As  upon  his  round  he  paces, 

-Sudden  sees  a  ragamuffin 

Clambering  swiftly  up  the  glacis. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  133 

k*  Who  goes  there  ?  "  exclaims  the  sentry  ; 

"  When  the  snn  has  once  gone  down 
No  one  ever  makes  an  entry 

Into  this  here  fortified  town !  " 


Shouted  thus  the  watchful  Sneezoff;         How  the  sentrio 

Sneezoff  was  sur- 

But,  ere  any  one  replied,  prised  and  siayn. 

Wretched  youth  !  he  fired  his  piece  off, 
Started,  staggered,  groaned,  and  died  ! 


xv. 

How  the  Cos- 

Ah,  full  well  might  the  sentinel  cry,  "  Who       £acks  rushed  in 

suddenly  and 
goes  there  ?  "  took  the  citie. 

But  echo  was  frightened  too  much  to  declare. 

Who  goes  there  ?  who  goes  there  ?    Can  any  one  swear 

To  the  number  of  sands  sur  les  lords  de  la  mer, 

Or  the  whiskers  of  D'Orsay  Count  down  to  a  hair  ? 

As  well  might  you  tell  of  the  sands  the  amount, 

Or  number  each  hair  in  each  curl  of  the  Count, 

As  ever  proclaim  the  number  and  name 

Of  the  hundreds  and  thousands  that  up  the  wall  came  ! 

Down,  down  the  knaves  poured  with  fire  and  with  sword  : 

There  were  thieves  from  the  Danube  and  0f  the  Cosaack 

rogues  from  the  Don  ;  troops, 

There  were  Turks  and  Wallacks,  and  shouting  Cossacks ; 


134  THE    GKEAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

Of  all  nations  and  regions,  and  tongues  and  religions  — 
Jew,  Christian,  Idolater,  Frank,  Mussulman : 

Ah,  a  horrible  sight  was  Kioff  that  night ! 
And  of  their  manner   The  gates  were  all  taken  —  no  chance  e'en 

of  burning,  murder-  on-    r 

ing,  and  ravishing.  Ot    flight  ; 

And  with  torch  and  with  axe  the  bloody  Cossacks 
Went  hither  and  thither  a-hunting  in  packs ; 
They  slashed  and  they  slew  both  Christian  and  Jew  — 
Women  and  children,  they  slaughtered  them  too. 
Some,  saving  their  throats,  plunged  into  the  moats, 
Or  the  river  —  but,  O,  they  had  burned  all  the  boats  ! 


How  they  burned 

the  whole  citie  But  here  let  us  pause  —  for  I  can't  pursue 

down,  save  the  _ 

church,  further 

This  scene  of  rack,  ravishment,  ruin,  and  murther. 

Too  well  did  the  cunning  old  Cossack  succeed  ! 

His  plan  of  attack  was  successful  indeed  ! 

The  night  was  his  own  —  the  town  it  was  gone  ; 

'Twas  a  heap  still  a-burning  of  timber  and  stone. 

One  building  alone  had  escaped  from  the  fires, 
whereof  the  bells      Saint  Sophy's  fair  church,  with  its  steeples 

began  to  ring.  and  Spires. 

Calm,  stately,  and  white, 
It  stood  in  the  light ; 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK   EPIC.  135 

And  as  if  'twould  defy  all  the  conqueror's  power,  — 

As  if  nought  had  occurred, 

Might  clearly  be  heard 
The  chimes  ringing  soberly  every  half  hour  ! 


XVI. 

The  city  was  defunct  —  silence  succeeded 

Unto  its  last  fierce  agonizing  yells  ; 
And  then  it  was  the  conqueror  first  heeded 

The  sound  of  these  calm  bells. 

Furious     towards   his    aideS-de-CampS         How  the  Cossack 

chief  bade  them 
he  turns,  ^urn  the  church 

And  (speaking  as  if  Byron's  works        00' 
he  knew) 
"  Villains  !  "  he  fiercely  cries,  "  the  city  burns, 

Why  not  the  temple  too  ? 
Burn  me  yon  church,  and  murder  all  within  !  " 

The    Cossacks    thundered    at    the         TT       ., 

How     they 
Outer  door;  stormedit;  and 

of  Hyacinth,  his 

And  Father  Hyacinth,  who  heard  the         anger  thereat. 
din 

(And  thought  himself  and  brethren  in  distress, 

Deserted  by  their  lady  patroness), 

Did  to  her  statue  turn,  and  thus  his  woes  out- 
pour. 


1S6  THE    CHEAT    COSSACK    Eric. 


XVII. 

His  prayer  to  the 

Saint  Sophia.  "  And  is  it  thus,  O  falsest  of  the  saints, 

Thou  nearest  our  complaints  ? 
Tell  me,  did  ever  my  attachment  falter 

To  serve  thy  altar  ? 
Was  not  thy  name,  ere  ever  I  did  sleep, 

The  last  upon  my  lip  ? 
Was  not  thy  name  the  very  first  that  broke 

From  me  when  I  awoke  ? 
Have  I  not  tried  with  fasting,  flogging,  penance, 

And  mortified  countenance 
For  to  find  favor,  Sophy,  in  thy  sight  ? 

And  lo  !  this  night, 
Forgetful  of  my  prayers,  and  thine  own  promise, 

Thou  turnest  from  us  ; 
Lettest  the  heathen  enter  in  our  city, 

And,  without  pity, 
Murder  our  burghers,  seize  upon  their  spouses, 

Burn  down  their  houses  ! 
Is  such  a  breach  of  faith  to  be  endured  ? 

See  what  a  lurid 
Light  from  the  insolent  invader's  torches 

Shines  on  your  porches  ! 
E'en  now,  with  thundering  battering-ram  and  hammer 

And  hideous  clamor  ; 


THE    GEEAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  137 

Witl  axemen,  swordsmen,  pikemen,  billmen,  bowmen. 

The  conquering  focmen, 
0  Sophy  !  beat  your  gate  about  your  ears, 

Alas  !  and  here's 
A  hunble  company  of  pious  men, 

Like  muttons  in  a  pen, 
Whost  souls  shall  quickly  from  their  bodies  be  thrusted, 

Because  in  you  they  trusted. 
Do  yox  not  know  the  Calmuc  chief's  desires  — 

Kill  all  the  feiars  ! 
And  you  of  all  the  saints  most  false  and  fickle, 

lieave  us  in  this  abominable  pickle." 

The  statue  sud- 

"  Rash  Hyacixthus  !  dealie  speak8; 

(Here  to  the  astonishment  of  all  her  backers, 
Saint  Sophy,  opening  wide  her  wooden  jaws, 

Like  t»  a  pair  of  German  walnut-crackers, 
Began)  "I  did  not  think  that  you  had  been  thus,  — 
O  monk  of  little  faith  !     Is  it  because 
A  rascal  scum  of  filthy  Cossack  heathen 
Besiege  our  town,  that  you  distrust  in  me,  then  ? 
Think' st  tiou  that  I,  who  in  a  former  day 
Did  walk  across  the  Sea  of  Marmora 
(Xot  mentbning,  for  shortness,  other  seas),  — 
That  I,  who  skimmed  the  broad  Borysthenes, 
Without  so  much  as  wetting  of  my  toes, 


138  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

Am  frightened  at  a  set  of  men  like  those  ? 
I  have  a  mind  to  leave  you  to  your  fate  : 
Such  cowardice  as  this  my  scorn  inspires." 

But  is  interrupted      Saint  Sophy  was  here 

by  the  breaking  in 

of  the  Cossacks.  Cut  short  in  her  words,  — 

For  at  this  very  moment  in  tumbled  the  gate, 

And  with  a  wild  cheer, 

And  a  clashing  of  swords, 

Swift  through  the  church  porches, 

With  a  waving  of  torches, 

And  a  shriek,  and  a  yell, 

Like  the  devils  of  hell, 

With  pike  and  with  axe 

In  rushed  the  Cossacks,  — 

In  rushed  the   Cossacks,  crying,    "  Xurder 

THE  FRIARS  !  " 
Of  Hyacinth,  his 

outrageous  address,   Ah  !  what  a  thrill  felt  Hyacinth, 

When  he  heard  that  villanous  shout  I?almuc  ! 
Now,  thought  he,  my  trial  beginneth ; 

"  Saints,  O  give  me  courage  and  pliuk  ! 
Courage,  boys,  'tis  useless  to  funk  ! 

Thus  unto  the  friars  he  began, 
Never  let  it  be  said  that  a  monk 

Is  not  likewise  a  gentleman. 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  139 

Though  the  patron  saint  of  the  church, 

Spite  of  all  that  we've  done  and  we've  prayed, 

Leaves  us  wickedly  here  in  the  lurch, 
Hang  it,  gentlemen,  who's  afraid  ?  " 

As  thus  the  gallant  Hyacinthus  spoke,  Andprepara- 

.  ip  tioa  for  dying. 

He  with  an  air  as  easy  and  as  iree  as 
If  the  quick-coming  murder  were  a  joke, 
Folded  his  robes  around  his  sides,  and  took 
Place  under  sainted  Sophy's  legs  of  oak, 

Like  Ceesar  at  the  statue  of  Pompeius. 
The  monks  no  leisure  had  about  to  look 
(Each  being  absorbed  in  his  particular  case), 
Else  had  they  seen  with  what  celestial  grace, 
A  wooden  smile  stole  o'er  the  saint's  mahogany  face, 
mm 
"  Well  done,  well  done,  Hyacinthus,  my  Faint  Sophia, 

.  , ,  her  speech. 

son! 

Thus  spoke  the  sainted  statue. 
"  Though  you  doubted  me  in  the  hour  of  need, 
And  spoke  of  me  very  rude  indeed, 
You  deserve  good  luck  for  showing  such  pluck, 

And  I  won't  be  angry  at  you." 


The  monks  by-standing,  one  and  all,        She  gets  on  the 

prior's  shoulders 

Of  this  wondrous  scene  beholders,        straddieback 


140  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPTC. 

To  this  kind  promise  listened  content, 
And  couldn't  contain  their  astonishment, 
When  Saint  Sophia  moved  and  went 
Down  from  her  wooden  pedestal, 
And  twisted  her  legs,  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
Round  Hyacinthus's  shoulders  ! 

And  bids       "  Ho  !  forwards,"  cries  Sophy,  "  there's  no  time 

him  run.  .   . 

for  waiting, 
The  Cossacks  are  breaking  the  very  last  gate  in : 
See  the  glare   of  their  torches    shines   red    through    the 
grating ; 

We've  still  the  back  door,  and  two  minutes  or  more. 
Xow,  boys,  now  or  never,  we  must  make  for  the  river, 

For  we  only  are  safe  on  the  opposite  shore. 
Run  swiftly  to-day,  lads,  if  ever  you  ran,  — 
Put  out  your  best  leg,  Hyacinthus,  my  man : 
And  I'll  lay  five  to  two  that  you  carry  us  through, 

Only  scamper  as  fast  as  you  can." 


He  runneth.  XVIII. 

Away  went  the  priest  through  the  little  back  door, 
And  light  on  his  shoulders  the  image  he  bore  : 

The  honest  old  priest  was  not  punished  the  least, 
Though  the  image  was  eight  feet,  and  he  measured  four, 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  141 

Away  went  the  prior,  and  the  monks  at  his  tail 
Went  snorting,  and  puffing,  and  panting  full  sail ; 

And  just  as  the  last  at  the  back  door  had  passed, 
In  furious  hunt  behold  at  the  front 
The  Tartars  so  fierce,  with  their  terrible  cheers  ; 
With  axes,  and  halberds,  and  muskets,  and  spears, 
With  torches  a-flaming  the  chapel  now  came  in. 
They  tore  up  the  mass  book,  they  stamped  on  the  psalter, 
They  pulled  the  gold  crucifix  down  from  the  altar ; 
The  vestments  they  burned  with  their  blasphemous  fires, 
And  many  cried  "  Curse  on  them  !  where  are  the  friars?  " 
When  loaded  with  plunder,  yet  seeking  for  more, 
One  chanced  to  fling  open  the  little  back  door, 
Spied  out  the  friars'  white  robes  and  long  shadows 
In  the  moon,  scampering  over  the  meadows, 
And  stopped  the  Cossacks  in  the  midst  of  their  arsons, 
By  crying   out   lustily,  "  There  go  the  AndtheTar- 

,  ,,  tars  after  him. 

PARSONS ! 

With  a  whoop  and  a  yell,  and  a  scream,  and  a  shout, 
At  once  the  whole  murderous  body  turned  out ; 
And  swift  as  the  hawk  pounces  down  on  the  pigeon, 
Pursued  the  poor  short-winded  men  of  religion. 


When  the  sound  of  that  cheering  came         How  the  friars 

.  sweated, 

to   the  monk  s  hearing, 
0  Heaven  !  how  the  poor  fellows  panted  and  blew ! 


142  THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 

At  fighting  not  cunning,  unaccustomed  to  running, 

When  the    Tartars  came    up,    what  the   deuce   should 
they  do  ? 
"They'll     make     us     all     martyrs,    those    bloodthirsty 
Tartars  !  " 
Quoth  fat  Father  Peter  to  fat  Father  Hugh. 
The     shouts    they    came     clearer,    the    foe    they   drew 
nearer ; 
O,  how  the  bolts  whistled,  and  how  the  lights  shone  ! 
"  I  cannot  get  further,  this  running  is  murther  ; 

Come  carry  me,  some  one  ! "  cried  big  Father  John. 
And  even  the  statue  grew  frightened,  "  Od  rat  you  !  " 

It  cried,  "  Mr.  Prior,  I  wish  you'd  get  on  !  " 
On  tugged  the  good  friar,  but  nigher  and  nigher 
Appeared  the  fierce  Russians,  with  sword  and  with  fire. 
On  tugged  the  good  prior,  at  Saint  Sophy's  desire,  — 
A  scramble  through  bramble,  through  mud  and  through 

mire. 
The  swift  arrows'  whizziness  causing  a  dizziness, 
Nigh  done  his  business,  fit  to  expire. 
Father   Hyacinth    tugged,  and    the   monks    they  tugged 

after : 
The  foemcn  pursued  with  a  horrible  laughter, 
And  the  pursuers       And  hurled   their  long  spears  round  the 

fixed  arrows  into  ,       ,,  , 

their  tayis.  P00r  brethren  s  ears, 

So  true,  that  next  day  in  the  coats  of  each 
priest, 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EPIC.  143 

Though  never  a  wound  was  given,  there  were  found 
A  dozen  arrows  at  least. 

Now  the  chase  seemed  at  its  worst,  now,  at  the 

Prior  and  monks  were  fit  to  burst ; 
Scarce  you  knew  the  which  was  first, 

Or  pursuers  or  pursued  ; 
When  the  statue,  by  Heaven's  grace, 
Suddenly  did  change  the  face 
Of  this  interesting  race, 

As  a  saint,  sure,  only  could. 

For  as  the  jockey  who  at  Epsom  rides, 

When  that  his  steed  is  spent  and  punished  sore, 
Diggeth  his  heels  into  the  courser's  sides, 

And  thereby  makes  him  run  one  or  two  furlongs  more ; 

Even  thus,  betwixt  the  eighth  rib  and  the  ninth, 
The  saint  rebuked  the  prior,  that  weary  creeper ; 

Fresh  strength  into  his  limbs  her  kicks  imparted. 

One  bound  he  made,  as  gay  as  when  he         The  friars  won, 

Started.  and  jumped  in- 

to Borj-sther.es 

Yes,  with  his  brethren  clinging  at  his  fluviua. 

cloak, 
The  statue  on  his  shoulders  —  fit  to  choke  — 
One  most  tremendous  bound  made  Hyacinth, 
And   soused   friars,  statue,  and    all,   slap  dash  into   the 

Dnieper  ! 


144  THE    GBEAT    COSSACK    EPIC. 


And  how  tho  XIX. 

Russians  saw 

And  when  the  Russians,  in  a  fiery  rank, 
Panting  and  fierce,  drew  up  along  the  shore  ; 

(For  here  the  vain  pursuing  they  forebore, 
Nor  cared  they  to  surpass  the  river's  bank), 
Then,  looking  from  the  rocks  and  rushes  dank, 

A  sight  they  witnessed  never  seen  before, 
And  which,  with  its  accompaniments  glorious, 
Is  writ  i'  the  golden  book,  or  liber  aureus. 

The  statue  get  off    Plump  in  the  Dnieper  flounced   the  friar 

Hyacinth  his  back, 

down  with  and  friends,  — 

the  friars  on  Hya-  ^       danglin„  round  hig   necl     he  fit  to 

cintb  his  cloak  J  °       ° 

choke, 

When  suddenly  his  most  miraculous  cloak 
Over  the  billowy  waves  itself  extends. 
Down  from  his  shoulders  quietly  descends 

The  venerable  Sophy's  statue  of  oak  ; 
Which,  sitting  down  upon  the  cloak  so  ample, 
Bids  all  the  brethren  follow  its  example  ! 

How  in  this  man-       Each  at  her  bidding  sat,  and  sat  at  case  ; 

ner  of  boat  they  , 

sayled  away.  The  statue  gan  a  gracious  conversation, 

And  (waving  to  the  foe  a  salutation) 
Sailed  with  her  wondering,  happy  proteges 


THE    GREAT    COSSACK    EriC. 


145 


Gayly  adown  the  wide  Borysthenes, 

Until  they  came  unto  some  friendly  nation. 
And  when  the  heathen  had  at  length  grown  shy  of 
Their  conquest,  she  one  day  came  back  again  to  KiofF. 

XX.  Finis,  or 

the  end. 

Think    not,  O   Reader,  that   we're    laughing  at 

you  ; 
You  may  go  to  Kioff  now,  and  see  the  statue  ! 
13  j 


"»* 


U  U 


TTTMARSH'S   CARMEN  LILLIEXSE. 


Lille,  Sept.  2,  1843. 

My  ncart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  7 
I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


With  twenty  pounds  but  three  weeks  since 
From  Paris  forth  did  Titmarsh  wheel, 

I  thought  myself  as  rich  a  prince 
As  beggar  poor  I'm  now  at  Lille. 

Confiding  in  my  ample  means  — 

In  troth,  I  was  a  happy  chiel ! 
I  passed  the  gates  of  Valenciennes. 

I  never  thought  to  come  by  Lille. 

(146) 


TITMARSH  S    CARMEN    EILEIENSE.  147 

I  never  thought  my  twenty  pounds 

Some  rascal  knave  would  dare  to  steal ; 

I  gayly  passed  the  Belgic  bounds 

At  Quievrain,  twenty  miles  from  Lille. 

To  Antwerp  town  I  hastened  post, 
And  as  I  took  my  evening  meal 
I  felt  my  pouch,  —  my  purse  was  lost, 

0  Heaven  !    Why  came  I  not  by  Lille  ? 

I  straightway  called  for  ink  and  pen, 

To  grandmamma  I  made  appeal ; 
Meanwhile  a  loan  of  guineas  ten 

1  borrowed  from  a  friend  so  leal. 

I  got  the  cash  from  grandmamma, 

(Her  gentle  heart  my  woes  could  feel) 

But  where  I  went,  and  what  I  saw, 
What  matters  ?    Here  I  am  at  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 
I  have  no  cash,  I  lie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


148  titsiaesii's  carmen  lilliexse. 


II. 


To  stealing  I  can  never  come, 

To  pawn  my  watch  I'm  too  genteel, 

Besides,  I  left  my  watch  at  home  ; 
How  could  I  pawn  it,  then,  at  Lille  ? 

"  La  note"  at  times  the  guests  will  say, 
I  turn  as  white  as  cold  boiled  veal ; 

I  turn  and  look  another  way, 
I  dare  not  ask  the  bill  at  Lille. 

I  dare  not  to  the  landlord  say, 

"  Good  sir,  I  cannot  pay  your  bill ;  " 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
And  is  quite  proud  I  stay  at  Lille. 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
Like  Rothschild  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 

And  so  he  serves  me  every  day 

The  best  of  meat  and  drink  in  Lille. 


Yet  when  he  looks  me  in  the  face 
I  blush  as  red  as  cochineal ; 


titmarsh's  carmen  lilliense.  149 

And  think  did  he  but  know  my  case, 
How  changed  he'd  be,  my  host  of  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 
I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


in. 

The  sun  bursts  out  in  furious  blaze, 
I  perspirate  from  head  to  heel ; 

I'd  like  to  hire  a  one-horse  chaise  ; 
How  can  I,  without  cash,  at  Lille  ? 

I  pass  in  sunshine  burning  hot 
By  cafes  where  in  beer  they  deal ; 

I  think  how  pleasant  were  a  pot, 
A  frothing  pot  of  beer  of  Lille  ! 

What  is  yon  house  with  walls  so  thick, 
All  girt  around  with  guard  and  grille  ? 

O,  gracious  gods,  it  makes  me  sick, 
It  is  the  prison-house  of  Lille  ! 
13* 


150  TITMABSH's  cabmen  eilliense. 

0  cursed  prison  strong  and  barred, 
It  does  my  very  blood  congeal ! 

1  tremble  as  I  pass  the  guard, 
And  quit  that  ugly  part  of  Lille. 

The  church-door  beggar  whines  and  prays, 

I  turn  away  at  his  appeal : 
Ah,  church-door  beggar  !  go  thy  ways  ! 

You're  not  the  poorest  man  in  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


Say,  shall  I  to  yon  Flemish  church, 
And  at  a  Popish  altar  kneel  ? 

O  do  not  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  — 
I'll  cry  ye  patron- saints  of  Lille  ! 

Ye  virgins  dressed  in  satin  hoops, 
Ye  martyrs  slain  for  mortal  weal, 


titxarsh  s  carmen  lilliense.  151 

Look  kindly  clown  !  before  you  stoops 
The  miserablest  man  in  Lille. 

And  lo  !  as  I  beheld  with  awe 

A  pictured  saint  (I  swear  'tis  real) 
It  smiled,  and  turned  to  grandmamma !  — 

It  did  !  and  I  had  hope  in  Lille  ! 

'Twas  five  o'clock,  and  I  could  eat, 
Although  I  could  not  pay,  my  meal : 

I  hasten  back  into  the  street 

Where  lies  my  inn,  the  best  in  Lille. 

What  see  I  on  my  table  stand,  — 

A  letter  with  a  well-known  seal  ? 
"Tis  grandmamma's  !     I  know  her  hand,  — 

"  To  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Lille." 

I  feel  a  choking  in  my  throat, 

I  pant  and  stagger,  faint  and  reel ! 
It  is  —  it  is  —  a  ten  pound  note, 

And  I'm  no  more  in  pawn  at  Lille ! 

[He  goes  off  by  the  diligence  that  evening,  and  is  restored  to 
the  bosom  of  his  happy  family.] 


LYRA  HIBERNICA. 


THE  POEMS   OF  THE   MOLOXY  OF  KILBALLYM  OLONY. 


THE  PIMLICO  PAVILION. 

Ye  pathrons  of  janius,  Minerva,  and  Yanius, 
Who  sit  on  Parnassus,  that  mountain  of  snow, 

Descind  from  your  station  and  make  observation 
Of  the  Prince's  pavilion  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

This  garden,  by  jakurs,  is  forty  poor  acres, 

(The  garner  he  tould  me,  and  sure  ought  to  know  ;) 

And  yet  greatly  bigger,  in  size  and  in  figure, 
Than  the  Phanix  itself,  seems  the  Park  Pimlico. 

(152) 


THE    PIMLICO    PAVILION.  153 

O  'tis  there  that  the  spoort  is,  when  the  Queen  and  the 
Court  is 

Walking  magnanimous  all  of  a  row, 
Forgetful  what  state  is  among  the  pataties 

And  the  pine-apple  gardens  of  sweet  Pimlico. 

There  in  blossoms  odo'rous  the  birds  sing  a  chorus, 
Of  "  God  save  the  Queen"  as  they  hop  to  and  fro  ; 

And  you  sit  on  the  binches  and  hark  to  the  finches, 
Singing  melodious  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

There  shuiting  their  phanthasies,  they  pluck  polyanthuses 
That  round  in  the  gardens  resplindently  grow, 

Wid  roses  and  jessimins,  and  other  sweet  specimins, 
Would  charm  bould  Linnayus  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

You  see  when  you  inther,  and  stand  in  the  cinther, 
Where  the  roses,  and  necturns,  and  collyflowers  blow, 

A  hill  so  tremindous,  it  tops  the  top-windows 
Of  the  elegant  houses  of  famed  Pimlico. 

And  when  you've  ascinded  that  precipice  splindid, 
You  see  on  its  summit  a  wondtherful  show  — 

A  lovely  Swish  building,  all  painting  and  gilding, 
The  famous  Pavilion  of  sweet  Pimlico. 


154  THE    TIMLICO    TAYILION. 

Prince  Albert,  of  Flandthcrs,  that  Prince  of  Commandthers, 
(On  whom  my  best  blessings  hereby  I  bestow,) 

With  goold  and  vermilion  has  decked  that  Pavilion, 
Where  the  Queen  may  take  tay  in  her  sweet  Pimlico. 

There's  lines  from  John  Milton  the  chamber  all  gilt  on, 
And  pictures  beneath  them  that's  shaped  like  a  bow ; 

I  was  greatly  astounded  to  think  that  that  Roundhead 
Should  find  an  admission  to  famed  Pimlico. 


0  lovely's  each  fresco,  and  most  picturesque  0, 
And  while  round  the  chamber  astonished  I  go, 

1  think  Dan  Maclise's  it  baits  all  the  pieces, 

Surrounding  the  cottage  of  famed  Pimlico. 

Eastlake  has  the  chimney,  (a  good  one  to  limn  he,) 
And  a  vargin  he  paints  with  a  sarpent  below ; 

While  bulls,  pigs,  and  panthers,  and  other  enchanthers, 
Is  painted  by  Landseer  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

And  nature  smiles  opposite,  Stanfield  he  copies  it ; 

O'er  Claude  or  Poussang  sure  'tis  he  that  may  crow  : 
But  Sir  Ross's  best  faiture,  is  small  mini-aturc  — 

He  shouldn't  paint  frescoes  in  famed  Pimlico. 


THE    PIMLICO    PAVILION.  15o 

There's  Leslie  and  Uwins  has  rather  small  doings ; 

There's  Dice,  as  "brave  masther  as  England  can  show ; 
And  the  flowers  and  the  sthrawberries,  sure  he  no  dauber  is, 

That  painted  the  panels  of  famed  Pimlico  ! 

In  the  pictures  from  Walther  Scott,  never  a  fault  there's  got, 
Sure  the  marble's  as  natural  as  thrue  Scaglio  ; 

And  the  Chamber  Pompayen  is  sweet  to  take  tay  in, 
And  ait  butther'd  muffins  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

There's  landscapes  by  Gruner,  both  solar  and  lunar, 
Them  two  little  Doyles,  too,  deserve  a  bravo  ; 

"Wid  de  piece  by  young  Townsend  (for  janius  abounds  in't;) 
And  that's  why  he's  shuited  to  paint  Pimlico. 

That  picture  of  Severn's  is  worthy  of  rever'nee, 
But  some  I  won't  mintion  is  rather  so  so ; 

For  sweet  philoso'phy,  or  crumpets  and  coffee, 
O  where' s  a  Pavilion  like  sweet  Pimlico  ? 

O  to  praise  this  Pavilion  would  puzzle  Quintilian, 
Daymosthenes,  Brougham,  or  young  Cicero ; 

So  heavenly  Goddess,  d'ye  pardon  my  modesty, 
And  silence  my  lyre  !  about  sweet  Pimlico. 


THE   CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


With  janial  foire 

Thransfuse  me  loyre, 
Ye  sacred  nympths  of  Pindus, 

The  whoile  I  sing 
That  wondthrous  thing, 

The  Palace  made  o'  windows  ! 


Say,  Paxton,  truth, 

Thou  wondthrous  youth, 
What  sthroke  of  art  celistial, 

What  power  was  lint 

You  to  invint 
This  combineetion  cristial  ? 

(56) 


THE    CRYSTAL    PALACE.  157 

O  would  before 

That  Thomas  Moore, 
Likewoise  the  late  Lord  Boyron, 

Thim  aigles  sthrong 

Of  godlike  song 
Cast  oi  on  that  cast  oiron ! 

And  saw  thim  walls, 

And  glittering  halls, 
Thim  rising  slendther  columns, 

Which  I,  poor  pote, 
.  Could  not  denote, 
No,  not  in  twinty  vollums. 

My  Muse's  words 

Is  like  the  birds 
That  roosts  beneath  the  panes  there ; 

Her  wings  she  spoils 

'Gainst  them  bright  tiles, 
And  cracks  her  silly  brains  there. 

This  Palace  tall, 

This  Cristial  Hall, 

Which  Imperors  might  covet, 

Stands  in  High  Park, 

Like  Noah's  Ark, 

A  rainbow  bint  above  it. 
14 


158  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 

The  towers  and  fanes, 

In  other  scaynes, 
The  fame  of  this  will  undo, 

Saint  Paul's  big  doom, 

Saint  Paythcr's  Room, 
And  Dublin's  proud  Rotundo. 

'Tis  here  that  roams, 

As  well  becomes 
Her  dignitee  and  stations, 

Victoria  Great, 

And  houlds  in  state 
The  Congress  of  the  Nations. 

Her  subjects  pours 
From  distant  shores, 

Her  Injians  and  Canajians  ; 
And  also  we, 
Her  kingdoms  three, 

Attind  with  our  allagiance. 

Here  come  likewise 

Her  bould  allies, 
Both  Asian  and  Europian ; 

From  East  and  West 

They  send  their  best 
To  fill  her  Coornucopean. 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE.  159 

I  seen  (thank  Grace  !) 

This  wondthrous  place 
(His  Noble  Honour  Misther 

H.  Cole  it  was 

That  gave  the  pass, 
And  let  me  see  what  is  there). 

With  conscious  proide 

I  stud  insoide 
And  looked  the  World's  Great  Fair  in, 

Until  me  sight 

Was  dazzled  quite, 
And  couldn't  see  for  staring. 

There's  holy  saints 

And  window  paints, 
By  Maydiayval  Pugin ; 

Alhamborough  Jones 

Did  paint  the  tones 
Of  yellow  and  gambouge  in. 

There's  fountains  there 

And  crosses  fair ; 
There's  water- gods  with  urrns  ; 

There's  organs  three, 

To  play,  d'ye  see, 
"  God  save  the  Queen,"  by  turrns. 


160  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 

There's  Statues  bright 

Of  marble  white, 
Of  silver,  and  of  copper  ; 

And  some  in  zinc, 

And  some,  I  think, 
That  isn't  over  proper. 

There's  staym  Ingynes, 

That  stands  in  lines, 
Enormous  and  amazing, 

That  squeal  and  snort 

Like  whales  in  sport, 
Or  elephants  a-grazing. 

There's  carts  and  gigs, 

And  pins  for  pigs  ; 
There's  dibblers  and  there's  harrows, 

And  ploughs  like  toys 

For  little  boys, 
And  elegant  wheel-barrows. 

For  them  genteels 

Who  ride  on  wheels, 
There's  plenty  to  indulge  'em  ; 

There's  Droskys  snug 

From  Paytersbug, 
And  vayhecles  from  Bulgium. 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE.  161 

There's  Cabs  on  Stands 

And  Shandthry  danns  ; 
There's  Waggons  from  New  York  here  ; 

There's  Lapland  Sleighs 

Have  crossed  the  says, 
And  Jaunting  Cyars  from  Cork  here. 

Amazed  I  pass 

From  glass  to  glass, 
Deloighted  I  survey  'em  ; 

Fresh  wondthers  grows 

Before  me  nose 
In  this  sublime  Musayum  ! 

Look,  here's  a  fan 

From  far  Japan, 
A  sabre  from  Damasco  ; 

There's  shawls  ye  get 

From  far  Thibet, 
And  cotton  prints  from  Glasgow. 

There's  German  flutes, 

Marocky  boots, 

And  Naples  Macaronies ; 

Boha)rmia 

Has  sent  Bohay 

Polonia  her  polonies. 

14*  K 


162  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 

There's  granite  flints 

That's  quite  imminse, 
There's  sacks  of  coals  and  fuels, 

There's  swords  and  guns, 

And  soap  in  tuns, 
And  Ginger-bread  and  Jewels. 

There's  taypots  there, 

And  cannons  rare ; 
There's  coffins  filled  with  roses  ; 

There's  canvas  tints, 

Teeth  insthrumints, 
And  shuits  of  clothes,  by  Moses. 

There's  lashins  more 

Of  things  in  store, 
But  thim  I  don't  remimber ; 

Nor  could  disclose 

Did  I  compose 
From  May  time  to  Xovimber  ! 

Ah  Juby  thru  ! 

With  eyes  so  blue, 
That  you  were  here  to  view  it ! 

And  could  I  screw 

But  tu  pound  tu, 
'Tis  I  would  thrait  you  to  it ! 


molony's  lament.  163 

So  let  us  raise 

Victoria's  praise, 
And  Albert's  proud  condition, 

That  takes  his  ayse 

As  he  surveys 
This  Cristial  Exhibition. 


MOLONY'S  LAMENT. 

O  Tim,  did  you  hear  of  thim  Saxons, 

And  read  what  the  peepers  repoort  ? 
They're  goan  to  recal  the  Liftinant, 

And  shut  up  the  Castle  and  Coort ! 
Our  desolate  counthry  of  Oireland, 

They're  bint,  the  blagyards,  to  desthroy, 
And  now,  having  murdthered  our  counthry, 

They're  goin  to  kill  the  Viceroy, 
Dear  boy  ; 

'Twas  he  was  our  proide  and  our  joy ! 

And  will  we  no  longer  behould  him, 
Surrounding  his  carriage  in  throngs, 

As  he  weaves  his  cocked  hat  from  the  windies, 
And  smiles  to  his  bould  aid-de-congs  r 


164  moloxy's  lament. 

I  liked  for  to  sec  the  young  haroes, 

All  shoining  with  sthripes  and  with  stars, 

A  horsing  about  in  the  Phaynix, 
And  winking  the  girls  in  the  cyars, 

Like  Mars, 
A  smokin'  their  poipes  and  cigyars. 

Dear  Mitchell,  exoiled  to  Bermudies, 

Your  beautiful  oilids  you'll  ope, 
And  there'll  be  an  abondance  of  croyin 

From  O' Brine  at  the  Keep  of  Good  Hope, 
When  they  read  of  this  news  in  the  peepers, 

Acrass  the  Atlantical  wave, 
That  the  last  of  the  Oirish  Liftinints 

Of  the  oisland  of  Seents  has  tuck  lave. 
God  save 

The  Queen  —  she  should  betther  behave. 


And  what's  to  become  of  poor  Dame  Sthreet, 
And  who'll  ait  the  puffs  and  the  tarts, 

Whin  the  Coort  of  imparial  splindor 
From  Doblin's  sad  city  departs  ? 

And  who'll  have  the  fiddlers  and  pipers, 
When  the  deuce  of  a  Coort  there  remains  ? 


molony's  lament.  165 

And  where'll  be  the  bucks  and  the  ladies, 
To  hire  the  Coort-shuits  and  the  thrains  ? 

In  sthrains 
It's  thus  that  ould  Erin  complains ! 

There's  Counsellor  Flanagan's  leedy, 

'Twas  she  in  the  Coort  didn't  fail, 
And  she  wanted  a  plinty  of  popplin, 

For  her  dthress,  and  her  flounce,  and  her  tail ; 
She  bought  it  of  Misthress  O' Grady, 

Eight  shillings  a  yard  tabinet, 
But  now  that  the  Coort  is  concluded, 

The  divvle  a  yard  will  she  get ; 
I  bet, 

Bedad,  that  she  wears  the  old  set. 

There's  Surgeon  O'Toole  and  Miss  Leary, 

They'd  daylings  at  Madam  O'Riggs' ; 
Each  year  at  the  dthrawing-room  sayson, 

They  mounted  the  neatest  of  wigs. 
When  Spring,  with  its  buds  and  its  dasies, 

Comes  out  in  her  beauty  and  bloom, 
Thim  tu'll  never  think  of  new  jasies, 

Because  there  is  no  dthrawing-room, 
For  whom 

They'd  choose  the  expense  to  ashume. 


ICG  3I0L0NY  S    LAMENT. 

There's  Alderman  Toad  and  his  lady, 

'Twas  they  gave  the  Clart  and  the  Poort, 
And  the  poine-apples,  turbots,  and  lobsters, 

To  feast  the  Lord  Liftinint's  Coort. 
But  now  that  the  quality's  goin, 

I  warnt  that  the  aiting  will  stop, 
And  you'll  get  at  the  Alderman's  teeble 

The  devil  a  bite  or  a  dthrop, 
Or  chop, 

And  the  butcher  may  shut  up  his  shop. 

Yes,  the  grooms  and  the  ushers  are  goin, 

And  his  Lordship,  the  dear  honest  man, 
And  the  Duchess,  his  eemiable  leedy, 

And  Corry,  the  bould  Connellan, 
And  little  Lord  Hyde  and  the  childthren, 

And  the  Chewter  and  Governess  tu ; 
And  the  servants  are  packing  their  boxes,  — 

0,  murther,  but  what  shall  I  due 
Without  you  ? 

O  Meery,  with  oi's  of  the  blue ! 


ME.  MOLONY'S    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    BALL.  1G7 


MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL 

GIVEN   TO   THE  NEPATJLESE    AMBASSADOR    BY  THE    PENINSULAR   AND 
ORIENTAL   COMPANY. 

O  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news, 

Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er : 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  Ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor !  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate, 

At  which  I  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 

Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"  We'll  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "  Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Xepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 


1G8         mr.  molony's  account  of  the  ball. 

And  Jullicn's  band  it  tuck  its  stand, 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chimes, 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was  ! 

At  ten  before  the  ball-room  door, 

His  moighty  Excellency  was, 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 
His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  door-way  followed  him  ; 
And  O  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him ! 

The  noble  Chair  *  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump ;  and  he 

Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 
The  welcome  of  his  Company. 

*  James  Matheson,  Esq.,  to  whom,  and  the  Board  of  Directors  of 
the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company,  I,  Timotheus  Malony,  late 
stoker  on  board  the  Iberia,  the  Lady  Mary  "Wood,  the  Tagus,  and  the 
Oriental  steamships,  humbly  dedicate  this  production  of  my  grateful 
muse. 


MR.  MOLOXY'S    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    BALL.  169 

0  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys,  you  saw  there,  was ; 

And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 
On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was  ! 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 
(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals ;) 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair, 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

0  Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes,  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee  ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility ! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there, 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O' Grady,  there ; 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked  like  Juno, 
And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
15 


170  MR.  510LONY  S    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    BALL. 

And  Countess  Eoullier,  that  looked  peculiar 
Well,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 

There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first, 
"When  only  ]NIr.  Pips  he  was), 

And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 
That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife  ; 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  I  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes,  and  Earls,  and  diamonds,  and  pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there  ; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues !)  I  spied, 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
O,  there's  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there, 
And  I'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there ! 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK.  171 


THE  BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK. 

Ye  Genii  of  the  nation, 

Who  look  with  veneration, 
And  Ireland's  desolation  onsaysingly  deplore, 

Ye  sons  of  General  Jackson, 

Who.thrample  on  the  Saxon, 
Attend  to  the  thransaction  upon  Shannon  shore. 

When  William,  Duke  of  Schumbug, 

A  tyrant  and  a  humbug, 
With  cannon  and  with  thunder  on  our  city  bore, 

Our  fortitude  and  valliance 

Insthructed  his  battalions 
To  rispict  the  galliant  Irish  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Since  that  capitulation, 

No  city  in  this  nation 
So  grand  a  reputation  could  boast  before, 

As  Limerick  prodigious, 

That  stands  with  quays  and  bridges, 
And  the  ships  up  to  the  windies  of  the  Shannon  shore. 


172  THE    BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK. 

A  chief  of  ancient  line, 

'Tis  William  Smith  O'Brine, 
Reprisints  this  darling  Limerick  this  ten  years  or  more 

O  the  Saxons  can't  endure 

To  see  him  on  the  flure, 
And  thrimble  at  the  Cicero  from  Shannon  shore  ! 

This  valiant  son  of  Mars 

Had  been  to  visit  Par's, 
That  land  of  Revolution,  that  grows  the  tricolor ; 

And  to  welcome  his  return 

From  pilgrimages  furren, 
We  invited  him  to  tay  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  we  summoned  to  our  board 

Young  Meagher  of  the  sword ; 
'Tis  he  will  sheathe  that  battle-axe  in  Saxon  gore ; 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast, 

We  bade  to  our  repast, 
To  dthrink  a  dish  of  coffee  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

Convaniently  to  hould 

These  patriots  so  bould, 
We  tuck  the  opportunity  of  Tim  Doolan's  store ; 

And  with  ornamints  and  banners 

(As  becomes  gintale  good  manners) 
We  made  the  loveliest  tay-room  upon  Shannon  shore. 


THE    BATTLE    QF    LIMERICK.  173 

'Twould  binifit  your  sowls 

To  see  the  butthcred  rowls, 
The  sugar-tongs  and  sangwidges  and  craim  galyore, 

And  the  muffins  and  the  crumpets, 

And  the  band  of  harps  and  thrumpets, 
To  celebrate  the  s worry  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Sure  the  Imperor  of  Bohay 
Would  be  proud  to  dthrink  the  tay 

That  Misthress  Biddy  Rooney  for  CTBrine  did  pour; 
And,  since  the  days  of  Strongbow, 
There  never  was  such  Congo  — 

Mitchil  dthrank  six  quarts  of  it  —  by  Shannon  shore. 

But  Clarndon  and  Corry 

Connellan  beheld  this  sworry 
With  rage  and  imulation  in  their  black  hearts'  core  ; 

And  they  hired  a  gang  of  ruffins 

To  interrupt  the  muffins, 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  Congo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

When  full  of  tay  and  cake, 

O' Brine  began  to  spake, 

But  juice  a  one  could  hear  him,  for  a  sudden  roar 

Of  a  ragamuffin  rout 

Began  to  yell  and  shout, 

And  frighten  the  propriety  of  Shannon  shore. 
15  * 


174  THE    BATTLBflgF    LIMERICK. 

As  Smith  O' Brine  harangued, 
They  batthered  and  they  banged ; 

Tim  Doolan's  doors  and  windies  down  they  tore ; 
They  smashed  the  lovely  windies, 
(Hung  with  muslin  from  the  Indies), 

Purshuing  of  their  shindies  upon  Shannon  shore. 

With  throwing  of  brickbats, 

Drowned  puppies  and  dead  rats, 
These  ruffin  democrats  themselves  did  lower ; 

Tin  kettles,  rotten  eggs, 

Cabbage-stalks  and  wooden  legs, 
They  flung  among  the  patriots  of  Shannon  shore. 

O,  the  girls  began  to  scrame, 

And  upset  the  milk  and  crame ; 
And  the  honourable  gintlemin  they  cursed  and  swore : 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast, 

'Twas  he  that  looked  aghast, 
When  they  roasted  him  in  effigy  by  Shannon  shore. 

O  the  lovely  tay  was  spilt 

On  that  day  of  Ireland's  guilt; 
Says  Jack  Mitchil, "  I  am  kilt !  Boys,  where's  the  back  door  ? 

'Tis  a  national  disgrace  ; 

Let  me  go  and  veil  me  face  ;  " 
And  he  boultcd  with  quick  pace  from  the  Shannon  shore. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LIMERICK.  175 

"  Cut  clown  the  bloody  horde  !  " 
.  Says  Meagher  of  the  sword, 
"  This  conduct  would  disgrace  any  blackamoor;  " 

But  millions  were  arrayed, 

So  he  shaythed  his  battle  blade, 
Rethrayting  undismayed  from  the  Shannon  shore. 

Immortal  Smith  0' Brine 

\Vas  raging  like  a  line ; 
'Twould  have  done  your  sowl  good  to  have  heard  him  roar  ; 

In  his  glory  he  arose, 

And  he  rushed  upon  his  foes, 
But  they  hit  him  on  the  nose  by  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  the  Futt  and  the  Dthragoons 

In  squadthrons  and  platoons, 
With  their  music  playing  chunes,  down  upon  us  bore  ; 

And  they  bate  the  rattatoo, 

And  the  Peelers  came  in  view, 
And  ended  the  shaloo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 


THE  BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 


THE  WOLFE  NEW  BALLAD   OF   JANE  RONEY  AND 
MARY  BROWN. 

Ax  igstrawnary  tail  I  vill  tell  you  this  veek  — 
I  stood  in  the  Court  of  A'Beckett  the  Beak, 
Yere  Mrs.  Jane  Roney,  a  vidow,  I  see, 
Who  charged  Mary  Brown  with  a  robbin  of  she. 

This  Mary  was  pore  and  in  misery  once, 

And  she  came  to  Mrs.  Roney  it's  more  than  twelve  monce, 

She  adn't  got  no  bed,  nor  no  dinner,  nor  no  tea, 

And  kind  Mrs.  Roney  gave  Mary  all  three. 

(176) 


JANE    HONEY    AND   MARY    BROWN.  177 

Mrs.  Roney  kcp  Mary  for  ever  so  many  veeks, 
(Her  conduct  disgusted  the  best  of  all  Beax,) 
She  kep  her  for  nothink,  as  kind  as  could  be, 
Never  thinking  that  this  Mary  was  a  traitor  to  she. 

"  Mrs.  Roney,  O  Mrs.  Roney,  I  feel  very  ill ; 
Will  you  jest  step  to  the  Doctor's  for  to  fetch  me  a  pill  ?  " 
"  That  I  will,  my  pore  Mary,"  Mrs.  Roney  says  she ; 
And  she  goes  off  to  the  Doctor's  as  quickly  as  may  be. 

No  sooner  on  this  message  Mrs.  Roney  was  sped, 
Than  hup  gits  vicked  Mary,  and  jumps  out  a  bed  ; 
She  hopens  all  the  trunks  without  never  a  key  — 
She  bustes  all  the  boxes,  and  vith  them  makes  free. 

Mrs.  Roney' s  best  linning  gownds,  petticoats,  and  close, 
Her  children's  little  coats  and  things,  her  boots  and  her 

hose, 
She  packed  them,  and  she  stole  'em,  and  avay  vith  them 

did  flee. 
Mrs.  Roney's  situation  —  you  may  think  vat  it  vould  be  ! 

Of  Mary,  ungrateful,  who  had  served  her  this  vay, 
Mrs.  Roney  heard  nothink  for  a  long  year  and  a  day, 
Till  last  Thursday,  in  Lambeth,  ven  whom  should  she  see  ? 
But  this  Mary,  as  had  acted  so  ungrateful  to  she. 

L 


17S  JANE    SONET    AND    MARY    BROWX. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  helbo  of  a  worthy  young  man ; 
They  were  going  to  be  married,  and  were  walkin  hand 

in  hand ; 
And  the  Church  bells  was  a  ringing  for  Mary  and  he, 
And  the  parson  was  ready,  and  a  waitin  for  his  fee. 

"When  up  comes  Mrs.  Roney,  and  faces  Mary  Brown, 
Who  trembles,  and  castes  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
She  calls  a  jolly  pleaseman,  it  happens  to  be  me ; 
I  charge  this  young  woman,  Mr.  Pleaseman,  says  she. 

Mrs.  Roney,  o,  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  do  let  me  go, 

I  acted  most  ungrateful  I  own,  and  I  know, 

But  the  marriage  bell  is  a  ringin,  and  the  ring  you  may 

see, 
And  this  young  man  is  a  waitin,  says  Mary,  says  she. 

I  don't  care  three  fardens  for  the  parson  and  dark, 
And  the  bell  may  keep  ringin  from  noon  day  to  dark. 
Mary  Brown,  Mary  Brown,  you  must  come  along  with  me, 
And  I  think  this  young  man  is  lucky  to  be  free. 

So,  in  spite  of  the  tears  which  bejewed  Mary's  cheek, 
I  took  that  young  gurl  to  A' Beckett  the  Beak ; 
That  exlent  justice  demanded  her  plea  — 
But  never  a  sullable  said  Mary  said  she. 


THE    THREE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS.  179 

On  account  of  her  conduck  so  base  and  so  vile, 
That  wicked  young  gurl  is  committed  for  trile, 
And  if  she's  transpawted  beyond  the  salt  sea, 
It's  a  proper  reward  for  such  willians  as  she. 

Now,  you  young  gurls  of  Southwark  for  Mary  who 

veep, 
From  pickin  and  stealin  your  ands  you  must  keep, 
Or  it  may  be  my  dooty,  as  it  was  Thursday  veek, 
To  pull  you  all  hup  to  A' Beckett  the  Beak. 


THE  THREE   CHRISTMAS  WAITS. 

My  name  is  Pleaceman  X ; 

Last  night  I  was  in  bed, 
A  dream  did  me  perplex, 

Which  came  into  my  Edd. 
I  dreamed  I  sor  three  Waits 

A  playing  of  their  tune, 
At  Pimlico  Palace  gates, 

All  underneath  the  moon. 
One  puffed  a  hold  French  horn, 

And  one  and  old  Banjo, 


180  THE     THREE     CHRISTMAS    WAITS. 

And  one  chap,  seedy  and  torn, 

A  Hirish  pipe  did  blow. 
They  sadly  piped  and  played, 

Dexcribing  of  their  fates  ; 
And  this  was  what  they  said, 

Those  three  pore  Christmas  Waits  :  — 

"  When  this  black  year  began, 

This  Eighteen-forty-eight, 
I  was  a  great,  great  man, 

And  king  both  vise  and  great, 
And  Munseer  Guizot  by  me  did  show 

As  Minister  of  State. 

"  But  Febuwerry  came, 

And  brought  a  rabble  rout, 
And  me  and  my  good  dame 

And  children  did  turn  out, 
And  us,  in  spite  of  all  our  right, 

Sent  to  the  right  about. 

"  I  left  my  native  ground, 

I  left  my  kin  and  kith, 
I  left  my  royal  crownd, 

Yich  I  couldn't  travel  vith, 
And  without  a  pound  came  to  English  ground, 

In  the  name  of  Mr.  Smith. 


THE    THREE     CHRISTMAS    WAITS.  181 

"  Like  any  anchorite 

I've  lived  since  I  came  here, 
I've  kep  myself  quite  quite, 

I've  drank  the  small  small  beer, 
And  the  vater,  you  see,  disagrees  vith  me, 

And  all  my  famly  dear. 

"  O,  Tweeleries  so  dear, 

O,  darling  Pally  Royl, 
Vas  it  to  finish  here 

That  I  did  trouble  and  toyl  ? 
That  all  my  plans  should  break  in  my  ands, 

And  should  on  me  recoil  ? 

"  My  state  I  fenced  about 

Vith  baynicks  and  with  guns ; 
My  gals  I  portioned  hout, 

Rich  vives  I  got  my  sons ; 
O,  varn't  it  crule  to  lose  my  rule, 

My  money  and  lands  at  once  ? 

"  And  so,  vith  arp  and  woice, 

Both  troubled  and  shagreened, 
I  bid  you  to  rejoice, 

O  glorious  England's  Queend  ! 
And  never  have  to  veep,  like  pore  Louis-Phileep, 

Because  you  out  are  cleaned. 
16 


182  THE    THREE     CHRISTMAS    WAITS. 

"  O,  Prins,  so  brave  and  stout, 

I  stand  before  your  gate ; 
Pray  send  a  trifle  hout 

To  me,  your  pore  old  Vait ; 
For  nothink  could  be  vuss  than  it's  been  along  vitli  us, 

In  this  year  Forty-eight." 

"  Ven  this  bad  year  began," 

The  nex  man  said,  saysee, 
"  I  vas  a  Journeyman, 

A  taylor  black  and  free, 
And  my  wife  went  out  and  chaired  about, 

And  my  name's  the  bold  CufFee. 

"  The  Queen  and  Halbert  both, 

I  swore  I  would  confound, 
I  took  a  hawfle  hoath 

To  drag  them  to  the  ground ; 
And  sevral  more  with  me  they  swore 

Against  the  British  Crownd. 

"  Aginst  her  Plcacemen  all, 

We  said  we'd  try  our  strenth ; 
Her  scarlick  soldiers  tall, 

We  vowed  we'd  lay  full  lenth  : 
And  out  we  came,  in  Freedom's  name, 

Last  Aypril  was  the  tenth. 


THE    THREE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS.  183 

"  Three  'undred  thousand  snobs 

Came  out  to  stop  the  vay, 
Vith  sticks  vith  iron  knobs, 

Or  else  we'd  gained  the  day. 
The  harmy  quite  kept  out  of  sight, 

And  so  ve  vent  avay. 

"  Next  day  the  Pleacemen  came  — 

Rewenge  it  was  their  plann  — 
And  from  my  good  old  dame 

They  took  her  tailor-mann : 
And  the  hard,  hard  beak  did  me  bespeak 

To  Newgit  in  the  Wann. 

"  In  that  etrocious  Cort 

The  Jewry  did  agree ; 
The  Judge  did  me  transport, 

To  go  beyond  the  sea ; 
And  so  for  life,  from  his  dear  wife 

They  took  poor  old  Cuffee. 

"  O  Halbert,  Appy  Prince  ! 

With  children  round  your  knees, 
Ingraving  ansum  Prints, 

And  taking  hofF  your  hease ; 
O  think  of  me,  the  old  Cuffee, 

Beyond  the  solt,  solt  seas ! 


184  THE     THREE     CHRISTMAS    WAITS. 

"  Although  I'm  hold  and  black, 
My  hanguish  is  most  great ; 

Great  Prince,  O  call  me  back 
And  I  vill  be  your  Vait ! 

And  never  no  more  vill  break  the  Lor, 
As  I  did  in  'Forty-eight." 

The  tailer  thus  did  close 

(A  pore  old  blackymore  rogue), 

When  a  dismal  gent  uprose, 
And  spoke  with  Hirish  brogue  : 

"  I'm  Smith  O'Brine,  of  Royal  Line, 
Descended  from  Rory  Ogue. 

"When  great  O'Connle  died, 
That  man  whom  all  did  trust, 

That  man  whom  Henglish  pride 
Beheld  with  such  disgust, 

Then  Erin  free  fixed  eyes  on  me, 
And  swoar  I  should  be  fust. 

"  '  The  glorious  Hirish  Crown,' 
Says  she,  '  it  shall  be  thine  ; 

Long  time,  it's  wery  well  known, 
You  kep  it  in  your  line  ; 

That  diadem  of  hemerald  gem 
Is  yours,  my  Smith  O'Brine. 


THE    THHEE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS.  185 

"  '  Too  long  the  .Saxon  churl 

Our  land  encumbered  hath  ; 
Arise,  my  Prince,  my  Earl, 

And  brush  them  from  thy  path ; 
Rise,  mighty  Smith,  and  sveep  'em  vith 

The  besom  of  your  wrath.' 

"  Then  in  my  might  I  rose, 

My  country  I  surveyed, 
I  saw  it  filled  with  foes, 

I  viewed  them  undismayed  ; 
Ha,  ha !  says  I,  the  harvest's  high, 

I'll  reap  it  with  my  blade. 

"  My  warriors  I  enrolled, 

They  rallied  round  their  lord  ; 
And  cheafs  in  council  old 

I  summoned  to  the  board  — 
Wise  Doheny  and  Duffy  bold, 

And  Meagher  of  the  Sword. 

"  I  stood  on  Slievenamaun, 

They  came  with  pikes  and  bills ; 

They  gathered  in  the  dawn, 
Like  mist  upon  the  hills, 

And  rushed  adown  the  mountain  side 

Like  twenty  thousand  rills. 
16* 


186  THE    THREE    CHRISTMAS    WAITS. 

"  Their  fortress  we  assail ; 

Hurroo  !  my  boys,  hurroo  ! 
The  bloody  Saxons  quail 

To  hear  the  wild  shaloo  ; 
Strike,  and  prevail,  proud  Innesfail, 

O' Brine,  aboo,  aboo  ! 

"  Our  people  they  defied ; 

They  shot  at  'em  like  savages, 
Their  bloody  guns  they  plied 

With  sanguinary  ravages  ; 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide 

That  day  among  the  cabbages  ! 

"  And  so  no  more  I'll  say, 
But  ask  your  Mussy  great, 

And  humbly  sing  and  pray, 
Your  Majesty's  poor  Wait: 

Your  Smith  O' Brine  in  'Forty-nine 
Will  blush  for  'Forty-eight." 


LINES  ON  A  LATE   HOSPICIOUS  EWENT. 


BY  A  GEXTLEMAN   OF  THE  FOOT-GUARDS    (BLUE). 


I  paced  upon  my  beat 

With  steady  step  and  slow, 

All  huppandownd  of  Ranelagh  Street 
Ran'la2h  St.  Pimlico. 


While  marching  huppandownd 
Upon  that  fair  May  morn, 

Beold  the  booming  cannings  sound, 
A  royal  child  is  born  ! 

The  Ministers  of  State 

Then  presnly  I  sor, 
They  gallops  to  the  Pallis  gate, 

In  carridges  and  for. 

*  The  birth  of  Prince  Arthur. 

(187) 


188  LINES    ON    A    LATE    HOSriCIOUS    EWEN1. 

With  anxious  looks  intent, 
Before  the  gate  they  stop, 

There  comes  the  good  Lord  President, 
And  there  the  Archbishopp. 

Lord  John  he  next  elights  ; 

And  who  comes  here  in  haste  ? 
'Tis  the  ero  of  one  underd  fights, 

The  caudle  for  to  taste. 


Then  Mrs.  Lily,  the  nuss, 

Towards  them  steps  with  joy; 
Says  the  brave  old  Duke,  "  Come  tell  to  us, 

Is  it  a  gal  or  a  boy  r  " 

Says  Mrs.  L.  to  the  Duke, 

"  Your  Grace,  it  is  a  Prince" 
And  at  that  miss's  bold  rebuke, 

He  did  both  laugh  and  wince. 


He  vews  with  pleasant  look 
This  pooty  flower  of  May, 

Then  says  the  wenerable  Duke, 
"  Egad,  its  my  buthday." 


LINES    OX   A   LATE    HOSPICIOTJS    EWENT.  189 

By  memory  backards  borne, 

Peraps  bis  thoughts  did  stray 
To  that  old  place  where  he  was  born, 

Upon  the  first  of  May. 

Peraps  he  did  recal 

The  ancient  towers  of  Trim  ; 
And  County  Meath  and  Dangan  Hall 

They  did  rewisit  him. 

I  phansy  of  him  so 

His  good  old  thoughts  employin' ; 
Fourscore  years  and  one  ago 

Beside  the  flowin'  Boyne. 

His  father  praps  he  sees, 

Most  musicle  of  Lords, 
A  playing  maddrigles  and  glees 

Upon  the  Arpsicords. 

Jest  phansy  this  old  Ero 

Upon  his  mother's  knee  ! 
Did  ever  lady  in  this  land 

Ave  greater  sons  than  she  ? 


190  LIXES    ON    A    LATE    HOSPICIOUS    EAVEXT. 

And  I  shoudn  be  surprise 
While  this  was  in  his  mind, 

If  a  drop  there  twinkled  in  his  eyes 
Of  unfamiliar  brind. 


To  Hapsly  Ouse  next  day 
Drives  up  a  Broosh  and  for, 

A  gracious  prince  sits  in  that  Shay 
(I  mention  him  with  Hor  !) 

They  ring  upon  the  bell, 
The  Porter  shows  his  Ed, 

(He  fought  at  Vaterloo  as  veil, 
And  vears  a  Veskit  red.) 

To  see  that  carriage  come 
The  people  round  it  press  : 

"  And  is  the  galliant  Duke  at  ome  ? 
"  Your  Royal  Ighness,  yes." 

He  stepps  from  out  the  Broosh 

And  in  the  gate  is  gone, 
And  X,  although  the  people  push, 

Says  wery  kind  "  Move  hon." 


LINES    ON   A    LATE    HOSPICIOTJS    EWENT.  191 

The  Royal  Prince  unto 

The  galliant  Duke  did  say, 
"  Dear  Duke,  my  little  son  and  you 

Was  born  the  self  same  day. 

"  The  lady  of  the  land, 

My  wife  and  Sovring  dear, 
It  is  by  her  horgust  command 

I  wait  upon  you  here. 

"  That  lady  is  as  well 

As  can  expected  be  ; 
And  to  your  Grace  she  bid  me  tell 

This  gracious  message  free. 

"  That  offspring  of  our  race, 

Whom  yesterday  you  see, 
To  show  our  honor  for  your  Grace, 

Prince  Arthur  he  shall  be. 


"  That  name  it  rhymes  to  fame  ; 

All  Europe  knows  the  sound  ; 
And  I  couldn't  find  a  better  name 

If  you'd  give  me  twenty  pound. 


192  LINES    OX    A    LATE    HOSriCIOUS    EWENT. 

"  King  Arthur  had  his  knights 
That  girt  his  table  round, 

But  you  have  won  a  hundred  fights, 
"Will  match  'em  I'll  be  bound. 


"  You  fought  with  Bonypart, 
And  likewise  Tippoo  Saib  ; 

I  name  you  then  with  all  my  heart 
The  Godsire  of  this  babe." 


That  Prince  his  leave  was  took, 
His  hintcrview  was  done. 

So  let  us  give  the  good  old  Duke 
Good  luck  of  his  god-son, 


And  wish  him  years  of  joy 
In  this  our  time  of  Schism, 

And  hope  he'll  hear  the  royal  boy 
His  little  catechism. 


And  my  pooty  little  Prince 
That's  come  our  arts  to  cheer, 

Let  me  my  loyal  powers  ewince 
A  welcomin  of  vou  ere. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAYIS.  19S 

And  the  Poit-Laureat's  crownd, 

I  think,  in  some  rcspex, 
Egstremely  shootable  might  be  found 

For  honest  Plcaseman  X. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ELIZA  DAVIS. 

Galliant  gents  and  lovely  ladies, 

List  a  tail  vich  late  befel, 
Vich  I  heard  it,  bein  on  duty, 

At  the  Pleace  Hoffice,  Clerkenwell. 

Praps  you  know  the  Fondling  Chapel, 
Vere  the  little  children  sings  : 

(Lor  !  I  likes  to  hear  on  S undies 
Them  there  pooty  little  things  ! ) 

In  this  street  there  lived  a  housemaid, 
If  you  particklarly  ask  me  where  — 

Vy,  it  vas  at  four  and  tventy, 

Guilford  Street,  by  Brunsvick  Square. 
17  M 


194  THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS. 

Vich  her  name  was  Eliza  Davis, 
And  she  went  to  fetch  the  beer  : 

In  the  street  she  met  a  party 

As  was  quite  surprized  to  see  her. 

Vich  he  vas  a  British  Sailor, 
For  to  judge  him  by  his  look  : 

Tarry  jacket,  canvas  trowsies, 
Ha-la  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke. 

Presently  this  Mann  accostes 
Of  this  hinnocent  young  gal  — 

Pray,  saysee,  Excuse  my  freedom, 
You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sal ! 

You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sally, 
Both  in  valk  and  face  and  size  ; 

Miss,  that  —  dang  my  old  lee  scuppers, 
It  brings  tears  into  my  heyes  ! 

I'm  a  mate  on  board  a  wessel, 
I'm  a  sailor  bold  and  true  ; 

Shiver  up  my  poor  old  timbers, 
Let  be  a  mate  for  you  ! 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS.  195 

What's  your  name,  my  beauty,  tell  me  ? 

And  she  faintly  hansers,  "  Lore, 
Sir,  my  name's  Eliza  Davis, 

And  I  live  at  tventy-four." 

Hofttimes  came  this  British  seaman, 

This  deluded  gal  to  meet : 
And  at  tventy-four  was  welcome, 

Tventy-four  in  Guilford  Street. 

And  Eliza  told  her  Master, 

(Kinder  they  than  Missuses  are), 
How  in  marridge  he  had  ast  her, 

Like  a  galliant  Brittish  Tar. 

And  he  brought  his  landlady  vith  him, 

(Vich  vas  all  his  hartful  plan), 
And  she  told  how  Charley  Thompson 

Reely  vas  a  good  young  man. 

And  how  she  herself  had  lived  in 

Many  years  of  union  sweet, 
Vith  a  gent  she  met  promiskous, 

Valkin  in  the  public  street. 


196  THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS. 

And  Eliza  listened  to  them, 

And  she  thought  that  soon  their  bands 
Vould  be  published  at  the  Fondlin, 

Hand  the  clergyman  jine  their  ands. 

And  he  ast  about  the  lodgers, 

(Vich  her  master  let  some  rooms), 

Likevise  vere  they  kep  their  things,  and 
Yere  her  master  kep  his  spoons. 

Hand  this  vicked  Charley  Thompson 
Came  on  Sundy  veek  to  see  her, 

And  he  sent  Eliza  Davis 

Hout  to  vetch  a  pint  of  beer. 

Hand  while  pore  Eliza  vent  to 
Fetch  the  beer,  dewoid  of  sin, 

This  etrocious  Charley  Thompson 
Let  his  wile  accomplish  hin. 

To  the  lodgers,  their  apartments, 
This  abandingd  female  goes, 

Prigs  their  shirts  and  umberellas  : 

Prigs  their  boots,  and  hats,  and  clothes. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS.  197 

Vile  the  scoundrle  Charley  Thompson, 

Lest  his  wictim  should  escape, 
Hocust  her  vith  rum  and  vater, 

Like  a  fiend  in  huming  shape. 

But  a  hi  was  fixt  upon  'em 

Vich  these  raskles  little  sore ; 
Namely,  Mr.  Hide  the  landlord, 

Of  the  house  at  tventy-four. 

He  vas  valkin  in  his  garden, 

Just  afore  he  vent  to  sup  ; 
And  on  looking  up  he  sor  the 

Lodger's  vinders  lighted  hup. 

Hup  the  stairs  the  landlord  tumbled ; 

Something's  going  wrong,  he  said  ; 
And  he  caught  the  vicked  voman 

Underneath  the  lodger's  bed. 

And  he  called  a  brother  Pleaseman, 

Vich  vas  passing  on  his  beat, 
Like  a  true  and  galliant  feller, 

Hup  and  down  in  Guildford  Street. 
17* 


198  THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS. 

And  that  Pleaseman  able-bodied 
Took  this  voman  to  the  cell ; 

To  the  cell  vere  she  was  quodded, 
In  the  Close  of  Clerkenwell. 

And  though  vicked  Charley  Thompson 
Boulted  like  a  miscrant  base, 

Presently  another  Pleaseman 
Took  him  to  the  self-same  place. 

And  this  precious  pair  of  raskles 
Tuesday  last  came  up  for  doom ; 

By  the  beak  they  was  committed, 
Vich  his  name  was  Mr.  Combe. 

Has  for  poor  Eliza  Davis, 
Simple  gurl  of  tventy-four, 

She,  I  ope,  vill  never  listen 
In  the  streets  to  sailors  moar. 


But  if  she  must  ave  a  sweet-art, 
(Vich  most  every  gurl  cxpex,) 

Let  her  take  a  jolly  pleaseman, 
Vich  is  name  peraps  is  —  X. 


DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    FOUNDS.  199 


DAMAGES,  TWO   HUNDRED  POUNDS. 

Special  Jurymen  of  England!  who  admire  your  country's 
laws, 

And  proclaim  a  British  Jury  worthy  of  the  realm's  ap- 
plause ; 

Gayly  compliment  each  other  at  the  issue  of  a  cause 

"Which  was  tried  at  Guildford  'sizes,  this  day  week  as  ever 
was. 

Unto  that  august  tribunal  comes  a  gentleman  in  grief, 
(Special  was  the  British  Jury,  and  the  Judge,  the  Baron 

Chief,) 
Comes  a  British  man  and  husband  —  asking  of  the  law 

relief, 
For  his  wife  was  stolen  from  him  —  he'd  have  vengeance 

on  the  thief. 

Yes,  his  wife,  the  blessed  treasure  with  the  which  his  life 
was  crowned, 

Wickedly  was  ravished  from  him  by  a  hypocrite  pro- 
found : 


200  DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    POUNDS. 

And  he  comes  before  twelve  Britons,  men  for  sense  and 

truth  renowned, 
To  award  him  for  his  damage    twenty  hundred  sterling 

pound. 

He  by  counsel   and   attorney  there   at   Guildford   does 

appear, 
Asking   damage   of   the    villain    who    seduced    his    lady 

dear; 
But  I  can  t  help  asking,  though  the  lady's  guilt  was  all 

too  clear, 
And  though  guilty  the    defendant,  wasn't  the    plaintiff 

rather  queer  ? 

First  the  lady's  mother  spoke,  and  said  she'd  seen  her 

daughter  cry 
But  a  fortnight  after  marriage  :   early  times  for  piping  eye. 
Six  months  after,  things  were  worse,  and  the  piping  eye 

was  black, 
And  this  gallant  British  husband  caned  his  wife  upon  the 

back. 

Three  months  after  they  were  married,  husband  pushed 

her  to  the  door, 
Told  her  to  be  off  and  leave  him,  for  he  wanted  her  no 


DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    POUNDS.  201 

As  she  would  not  go,  why,  lie  went :  thrice  he  left  his  lady 

dear, 
Left  her,  too,  without  a  penny,  for  more  than  a  quarter  of 

a  year. 

Mrs.  Frances  Duncan  knew  the  parties  very  well  indeed ; 
She  had  seen  him  pull  his  lady's  nose,  and  make  her  lip 

to  bleed ; 
If  he  chanced  to  sit  at  home,  not  a  single  word  he  said ; 
Once  she  saw  him  throw  the  cover  of  a  dish  at  his  lady's 

head. 

Sarah  Green,  another  witness,  clear  did  to  the  Jury  note 
How  she   saw  this  honest  fellow  seize  his  lady  by  the 

throat, 
How  he  cursed  her  and   abused  her,   beating  her  into 

a  fit, 
Til  the  pitying  next-door  neighbors  crossed  the  wall  and 

witnessed  it. 

Nex;  door  to  this  injured  Briton  Mr.  Owers,  a  butcher, 

dwelt ; 
Mrs.  Owers's  foolish  heart  towards  this  erring  dame  did 

melt ; 
(Not  that  she  had  erred  as  yet,  crime  was  not  developed 

in  her) 


202  DAMAGES,    TWO    HUNDRED    TOUXDS. 

But  being  left  without  a  penny,  Mrs.  Owers  supplied  her 

dinner  — 
God  be  merciful  to  Mrs.  Owers,  who  was  merciful  to  this 

sinner ! 

Caroline  Naylor  was  their  servant,  said  they  led  a  wretched 

life, 
Saw  this  most  distinguished  Briton  fling  a  teacup  at  his 

wife ; 
He  went  out  to  balls  and  pleasures,  and  never  once,  in 

ten  months'  space, 
Sat  with  his  wife,  or  spoke  her  kindly.     This  was   the 

defendant's  case. 

Pollock,  C.  B.,  charged  the  Jury;  said  the  woman's  guilt 

was  clear ; 
That  was  not  the  point,  however,  which  the  Jury  came  to 

hear ; 
But  the  damage  to  determine,  which,  as  it  should  tiue 

appear, 
This  most  tender-hearted  husband,  who  so  used  his  "ady 

dear, 

Beat  her,  kicked  her,  caned  her,  cursed  her,  left  her  starv- 
ing year  by  year, 

Flung  her  from  him,  parted  from  her,  wrung  ha*  neck, 
and  boxed  her  ear, 


I 


DAMAGES,  TWO    HUNDRED    POUNDS.  203 

What  the  reasonable   damage   this   afflicted   man   could 

claim, 
By  the  loss  of  the  affections  of  this  guilty,  graceless  dame  ? 

Then  the  honest  British  Twelve,  to  each  other  turning 

round, 
Laid   their  clever  heads  together,  with  a  wisdom  most 

profound ; 
And  towards  his  Lordship  looking,  spoke  the  foreman 

wise  and  sound ; 
"  My  Lord,  we  find  for  this  here  plaintiff  damages  two 

hundred  pound." 

So,  God  bless  the  Special  Jury !  pride  and  joy  of  English 

ground, 
And  the  happy  land  of  England,  where  true  justice  does 

abound ! 
British  Jurymen  and   husbands,  let  us  hail   this  verdict 

proper ; 
If  a  British  wife  offends  you,  Britons,  you've  a  right  to 

whop  her. 

Though  you  promised  to  protect  her,  though  you  prom- 
ised to  defend  her, 

You  are  welcome  to  neglect  her ;  to  the  devil  you  may 
send  her : 


204  THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    LADY. 

You  may  strike  her,  curse,  abuse  her  ;  so  declares  our  law 

renowned  ; 
And  if  after  this  you  lose  her  —  why,  you're   paid  two 

hundred  pound. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY. 

There's  in  the  Vest  a  city  pleasant, 
To  vich  King  Bladud  gev  his  name, 

And  in  that  city  there's  a  Crescent, 
Vere  dwelt  a  noble  knight  of  fame. 

Although  that  galliant  knight  is  oldish, 
Although  Sir  John  as  gray,  gray  air, 

Hage  has  not  made  his  busum  coldish, 
His  Art  still  beats  tewodds  the  Fair  ! 

Twas  two  years  sins,  this  knight  so  splendid, 
Peraps  fateagued  with  Bath's  routines, 

To  paris  towne  his  phootsteps  bended 
In  sutch  of  gayer  folks  and  seans. 

His  and  was  free,  his  means  was  easy, 
A  nobler,  finer  gent  than  he 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY.  205 

Ne'er  drove  about  the  Shons-Eleesy, 
Or  paced  the  Roo  de  Rivolee. 

A  brougham  and  pair  Sir  John  prowided, 

In  which  abroad  he  loved  to  ride  ; 
But  ar  !  he  most  of  all  enjyed  it, 

When  some  one  helse  was  sittin'  inside  ! 

That  "  some  one  helse  "  a  lovely  dame  was, 

Dear  ladies,  you  will  heasy  tell  — 
Countess  Grabrowski  her  sweet  name  was, 

A  noble  title,  ard  to  spell. 

This  faymous  countess  ad  a  daughter 

Of  lovely  form  and  tender  art ; 
A  nobleman  in  marridge  sought  her, 

By  name  the  Baron  of  Saint  Bart. 

Their  pashn  touched  the  noble  Sir  John, 

It  was  so  pewer  and  profound  ; 
Lady  Grabrowski  he  did  urge  on, 

With  Hyming's  wreeth  their  loves  to  crownd. 

"  0,  come  to  Bath,  to  Lansdowne  Crescent," 
Says  kind  Sir  John,  "  and  live  with  me  ; 
18 


206  THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    LADY. 

The  living  there's  uncommon  pleasant  — 
I'm  sure  you'll  find  the  hair  agree. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  my  fair  Grabrowski, 
And  bring  your  charming  girl,"  sezee  : 

"  The  Barring  here  shall  have  the  ouse-key, 
Vith  breakfast,  dinner,  lunch,  and  tea. 

"  And  when  they've  passed  an  appy  winter, 
Their  opes  and  loves  no  more  we'll  bar  ; 

The  marridge-vow  they'll  enter  inter, 
And  I  at  church  will  be  their  Par." 

To  Bath  they  went  to  Lansdowne  Crescent, 
Where  good  Sir  John  he  did  provide 

No  end  of  teas,  and  balls  incessant, 
And  hosses  both  to  drive  and  ride. 

He  was  so  Ospitably  busy, 

When  Miss  was  late,  he'd  make  so  bold 
Upstairs  to  call  out,  "  Missy,  Missy, 

Come  down,  the  coffy's  getting  cold !  " 

But  O  !  'tis  sadd  to  think  such  bounties 
Should  meet  with  such  return  as  this ; 


THE    KNIGHT    AND    THE    LADY.  207 

O,  Barring  of  Saint  Bart,  O,  Countess 
Grabrowski,  and  O,  cruel  Miss  ! 

He  married  you  at  Bath's  fair  Habby, 

Saint  Bart  he  treated  like  a  son  — 
And  wasn't  it  uncommon  shabby 

To  do  what  you  have  went  and  done  ! 

My  trembling  And  amost  refewses 

To  write  the  charge  which  Sir  John  swore, 

Of  which  the  Countess  he  ecuses, 
Her  daughter  and  her  son-in-lore. 

My  Mews  quite  blushes  as  she  sings  of 
The  fatle  charge  which  now  I  quote  : 

He  says  Miss  took  his  two  best  rings  off, 
And  pawned  'em  for  a  tenpun  note. 

"  Is  this  the  child  of  honest  parince, 
To  make  away  with  folk's  best  things  ? 

Is  this,  pray,  like  the  wives  of  Barrins, 
To  go  and  prig  a  gentleman's  rings  ?  " 

Thus  thought  Sir  John,  by  anger  wrought  on, 
And  to  rewenge  his  injured  cause, 


208  JACOB   omnium's  iioss. 

He  brought  them  hup  to  Mr.  Broughton, 

Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  waws. 

If  guiltless,  how  she  have  been  slandered  ! 

If  guilty,  wengeance  will  not  fail ; 
Meanwhile,  the  lady  is  remanderd, 

And  gev  three  hundred  pouns  in  bail. 


JACOB   OMNIUM'S  HOSS. 

A  NEW  PALLICE   COURT    CHAUNT. 

One  sees  in  Viteall  Yard, 
Vere  pleacemen  do  resort, 

A  wenerable  hinstitute, 

'Tis  called  the  Pallis  Court. 

A  gent  as  got  his  i  on  it, 

I  think  will  make  some  sport. 

The  natur  of  this  Court 
My  hindignation  riles  : 

A  few  fat  legal  spiders 

Here  set  &  spin  their  viles  ; 


jacob  omnium's  hoss.  209 

To  rob  the  town  theyr  privlcge  is, 
In  a  hayrea  of  twelve  miles. 

The  Judge  of  this  year  Court 

Is  a  mellitary  beak, 
He  knows  no  more  of  Lor 

Than  praps  he  does  of  Greek, 
And  prowidcs  hisself  a  deputy 

Because  he  cannot  speak. 

Four  counsel  in  this  Court  — 

Misnamed  of  Justice  —  sits  ; 
These  lawyers  owes  their  places  to 

Their  money,  not  their  wits  ; 
And  there's  six  attornies  under  them, 

As  here  their  living  gits. 


o  o* 


These  lawyers,  six  and  four, 
Was  a  livin  at  their  ease, 

A  sendin  of  their  writs  abowt, 
And  droring  in  the  fees, 

When  their  erose  a  cirkimstance 
As  is  like  to  make  a  breeze. 


It  now  is  some  monce  since, 
Age 
18  * 


A  gent  both  good  and  trew 


210  JACOB  omnium's  hoss. 

Possest  a  ansum  oss  vith  vich 
He  didn  know  what  to  do  : 

Peraps  lie  did  not  like  the  oss, 
Peraps  he  was  a  scru. 

This  gentleman  his  oss 
At  Tattersall's  did  lodge  ; 

There  came  a  wulgar  oss-dealer, 
This  gentleman's  name  did  fodge, 

And  took  the  oss  from  Tattersall's : 
Wasn  that  a  artful  dodge  ? 

One  day  this  gentleman's  groom 

This  willain  did  spy  out, 
A  mounted  on  this  oss, 

A  ridin  him  about ; 
"  Get  out  of  that  there  oss,  you  rogue," 

Speaks  up  the  groom  so  stout. 

The  thief  was  cruel  whex'd 
To  find  hisself  so  pinn'd  ; 

The  oss  began  to  whinny, 

The  honest  groom  he  grinn'd  ; 

And  the  raskle  thief  got  off  the  oss 
And  cut  avay  like  vind. 


JACOB    OMNIUMS    HOSS.  211 

And  phansy  with  what  joy 

The  master  did  regard 
His  dearly  bluvd  lost  oss  again 

Trot  in  the  stable  yard  ! 

Who  was  this  master  good 

Of  whomb  I  makes  these  rhymes  ? 

His  name  is  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire ; 
And  if  /'d  committed  crimes, 

Good  Lord  !  I  wouldn't  ave  that  mann 
Attack  me  in  the  Times  ! 

Now,  shortly  after  the  groomb 

His  master's  oss  did  take  up, 
There  came  a  livery-man 

This  gentleman  to  wake  up ; 
And  he  handed  in  a  little  bill, 

Which  hanger' d  Mr.  Jacob. 

For  two  pound  seventeen 

This  livery-man  eplied, 
For  the  keep  of  Mr.  Jacob's  oss, 

Which  the  thief  had  took  to  ride. 
"  Do  you  see  any  think  green  in  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Jacob  Homnium  cried. 


212  jacob  omnium's  iioss. 

"  Because  a  raskle  chews 

My  oss  away  to  robb, 
And  goes  tick  at  your  Mews 

For  seven-and-fifty  bobb, 
Shall  I  be  called  to  pay  ?  —  It  is 

A  iniquitious  Jobb." 

Thus  Mr.  Jacob  cut 

The  conwasation  short ; 
The  livery-man  went  ome, 

Detummingd  to  ave  sj>ort, 
And  summingsd  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire, 

Into  the  Pallis  Court. 

Pore  Jacob  went  to  Court, 

A  Counsel  for  to  fix. 
And  choose  a  barrister  out  of  the  four, 

An  attorney  of  the  six ; 
And  there  he  sor  these  men  of  Lor, 

And  watched  'em  at  their  tricks. 

The  dreadful  day  of  trile 

In  the  Pallis  Court  did  come ; 

The  lawyers  said  their  say, 
The  Judge  looked  wery  glum, 


JACOB    OMNIUMS    IIOSS.  213 

And  then  the  British  Jury  cast 
Pore  Jacob  Hom-ni-um. 

O,  a  weary  day  was  that 

For  Jacob  to  go  through ; 
The  debt  was  two  seventeen, 

(Which  he  no  mor  owed  than  you), 
And  then  there  was  the  plaintives  costs, 

Eleven  pound  six  and  two. 

And  then  there  was  his  own, 

Which  the  lawyers  they  did  fix 
At  the  wery  moderit  figgar 

Of  ten  pound  one  and  six. 
Now  Evins  bless  the  Pallis  Court, 

And  all  its  bold  ver- dicks  ! 

I  cannot  settingly  tell 

If  Jacob  swaw  and  cust, 
At  aving  for  to  pay  this  sumb, 

But  I  should  think  he  must, 
And  av  drawn  a  cheque  for  £24  4s.  Sd. 

With  most  igstreme  disgust. 

O  Pallis  Court,  you  move 
My  pitty  most  profound. 


214  jacob  omnium's  hoss. 

A  most  emusing  sport 

You  thought  it,  I'll  be  bound, 

To  saddle  hup  a  three-pound  debt, 
With  two-and-twenty  pound. 

Good  sport  it  is  to  you, 

To  grind  the  honest  pore  ; 
To  rjay  their  just  or  unjust  debts 

With  eight  hundred  per  cent,  for  Lor ; 
Make  haste  and  git  your  costes  in, 

They  will  not  last  much  mor ! 

Come  down  from  that  tribewn, 
Thou  Shameless  and  Unjust ; 

Thou  Swindle,  picking  pockets  in 
The  name  of  Truth,  august ; 

Come  down,  thou  hoary  Blasphemy, 
For  die  thou  shalt  and  must. 

And  go  it,  Jacob  Homnium, 

And  ply  your  iron  pen, 
And  rise  up  Sir  John  Jervis, 

And  shut  me  up  that  den  ; 
That  sty  for  fattening  lawyers  in, 

On  the  bones  of  honest  men. 

Pleaceman    X. 


THE  SPECULATORS. 


The  night  was  stormy  and  dark,  The  town  was  shut 
up  in  sleep  :  Only  those  were  abroad  who  were  out  on  a 
lark,     Or  those  who'd  no  beds  to  keep. 

I  pass'd  through  the  lonely  street,  The  wind  did  sing 
and  blow  ;  I  could  hear  the  policeman's  feet  Clapping 
to  and  fro. 

There  stood  a  potato-man  In  the  midst  of  all  the  wet ; 
He  stood  with  his  'tato-can     In  the  lonely  Haymarket. 

Two  gents  of  dismal  mien,  And  dank  and  greasy  rags, 
Came  out  of  a  shop  for  gin,     Swaggering  over  the  flags  : 

Swaggering  over  the  stones,  These  shabby  bucks  did 
walk  ;  And  I  went  and  followed  those  seedy  ones,  And 
listened  to  their  talk. 

(215) 


216  THE    SPECULATORS. 

"Was  I  sober  or  awake  ?  Could  I  believe  my  ears  ? 
Those  dismal  beggars  spake  Of  nothing  but  railroad 
shares. 

I  wondered  more  and  more  :  Says  one  —  "  Good  friend 
of  mine,  How  many  shares  have  you  wrote  for  ?  In  the 
Diddlesex  Junction  line  ?  " 

"  I  wrote  for  twenty,"  says  Jim,  "  But  they  wouldn't 
give  me  one  ;  "  His  comrade  straight  rebuked  him  For 
the  folly  he  had  done  : 

"  0  Jim,  you  are  unawares  Of  the  ways  of  this  bad 
town;  I  always  write  for  five  hundred  shares,  And 
then  they  put  me  down." 

"  And  yet  you  got  no  shares,"  Says  Jim,  "  for  all 
your  boast ;  "  "I  would  have  wrote,"  says  Jack,  "  but 
where     Was  the  penny  to  pay  the  post?  " 

"  I  lost,  for  I  couldn't  pay  That  first  instalment  up  ; 
But  here's  taters  smoking  hot  —  I  say  Let's  stop  my 
boy  and  sup." 

And  at  this  simple  feast  The  while  they  did  regale, 
I  drew  each  ragged  capitalist  Down  on  my  left  thumo- 
nail. 


THE    SPECULATORS.  217 

Their  talk  did  me  perplex,  All  night  I  tumbled  and 
tost,  And  thought  of  railroad  specs.,  And  how  money 
was  won  and  lost. 

"  Bless    railroads    everywhere,"     I    said,     "  and    the 
world's  advance  ;     Bless  every  railroad  share     In  Italy, 
Ireland,  France  ;     For  never  a  beggar  need  now  despair, 
And  every  rogue  has  a  chance." 
19 


THE    LAMENTABLE    BALLAD    OF  THE  FOUNDLING 
OF   SHORED1TCH. 


Come,  all  ye  Christian  people,  and  listen  to  my  tail, 

It  is  all  about  a  doctor  was  travelling  by  the  rail, 

By  the  Heastern  Counties   Railway  (vich   the    shares   I 

don't  desire), 
From  Ixworth   town  in  Suffolk,  vich  his  name  did  not 

transpire. 

A  travelling  from  Bury  this  Doctor  was  employed 

With  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  vich  his   name   was 

Captain  Loyd ; 
And  on  reaching  Marks  Tey  Station,  that  is  next  beyond 

Colchest- 
er, a  lady  entered  into  them  most  elegantly  dressed. 

(218) 


THE    FOUNDLING    OF    SHOKEDITCH.  219 

She  entered  into  the  Carnage  all  with  a  tottering  step, 
And  a  pooty  little  Bayby  upon  her  bussum  slep ; 
The  gentlemen  received  her  with  kindness  and  siwillaty, 
Pitying  this  lady  for  her  illness  and  debillaty. 

She  had  a  fust  class  ticket,  this  lovely  lady  said, 
Because  it  was  so  lonesome  she  took  a  secknd  instead. 
Better  to  travel  by  secknd  class  than  sit  alone  in  the  fust, 
And  the  pooty  little  Baby  upon  her  breast  she  nust. 

A  seein  of  her  cryin,  and  shiverin  and  pail, 
To  her  spoke  this  surging,  the  Ero  of  my  tail ; 
Saysee  you  look  unwell,  Ma'am,  I'll  elp  you  if  I  can, 
And  you  may  tell  your  case  to  me,  for  I'm  a  meddicle  man. 

"  Thank  you,  Sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  I  only  look  so  pale, 
Because  I  ain't  accustom' d  to  travelling  on  the  Rale ; 
I  shall  be  better  presnly,  when  I've  ad  some  rest :  " 
And  that  pooty  little  Baby  she  squeeged  it  to  her  breast. 

So  in  conwersation  the  journey  they  beguiled, 

Capting  Loyd  and  the  medical  man,  and  the  lady  and  the 

child, 
Till  the  warious  stations  along  the  line  was  passed, 
For  even  the  Heastern  Counties'  trains  must  come  in  at 

last. 


220  THE    FOUNDLING    OF    SIIOREDITCH. 

When  at  Shoreditch  tumminus  at  lcntli  stopped  the  train, 
This  kind  mcddicle  gentleman  proposed  his  aid  again. 
"  Thank  yon,  Sir,"   the  lady  said,   "  for  yonr  kyindness 

dear  ; 
My  carridge  and  my  osses  is  probbibly  come  here. 

"  Will  yon  old  this  baby,  please,  vilst  I  step  and  see  r " 
The  Doctor  was  a  famly  man:   "  That  I  will,"  says  he. 
Then  the  little  child  she  kist,  kist  it  very  gently, 
Vich  was  sucking  his  little  fist,  sleeping  innocently. 

With  a  sigh  from  her  art,  as  though  she  would  have  bust  it, 
Then  she  gave  the  Doctor  the  child  —  wery  kind  he  nust  it : 
Hup  then  the  lady  jumped  hofF  the  bench  she  sat  from, 
Tumbled  down  the  carridge  steps  and  ran  along  the  plat- 
form. 

Vile  hall  the  other  passengers  vent  upon  their  vays, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  sat  there  in  a  maze  ; 
Some  vent  in  a  Homminibus,  some  vent  in  a  Cabby, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  vaited  vith  the  babby. 

There  they  sat  looking  queer,  for  an  hour  or  more, 
But  their  feller  passinger  neather  on  "cm  sore  : 
Never,  never  back  again  did  that  lady  come 
To  that  pooty  sleeping  Hinfnt  a  suckin  of  his  Thum  ! 


THE    FOUXDIIXG    OF    SHOKEDITCH.  221 

What  could  this  pore  Doctor  do,  bein  treated  thus, 

"When  the  darling  Baby  woke,  cryin  for  its  nuss  ? 

Off  he  drove  to  a  female  friend,  rich  she  was  both  kind 

and  mild, 
And  igsplained  to  her  the  circumstance  of  this  year  little 

child. 

That  kind  lady  took  the  child  instantly  in  her  lap, 
And  made  it  very  comforable  by  giving  it  some  pap ; 
And  when  she  took  its  close  off,  what  d'  you  think  she 

found  ? 
A  couple  of  ten  pun  notes  sewn  up,  in  its  little  gownd  ! 

Also,  in  its  little  close,  was  a  note  which  did  conwey, 
That  this  little  baby's  parents  lived  in  a  handsome  way  : 
And  for  its  Headucation  they  reglarly  would  pay, 
And  sirtingly  like  gentlefolks  would  claim  the  child  one 

day, 
If  the  Christian  people  who'd  charge  of  it  would  say, 
Per  adwertisement  in  the  Times,  where  the  baby  lay. 

Pity  of  this  bayby  many  people  took, 
It  had  such  pooty  ways  and  such  a  pooty  look ; 
And  there  came  a  lady  forrard  (I  wish  that  I  could  see 
Any  land  lady  as  would  do  as  much  for  me ; 
19* 


222  THE    FOUNDLING    OF    SIIOREDITCII. 

And  I  wish  with  all  my  art,   some  night    in   my   night 

gownd, 
I  could  find  a  note  stitched  for  ten  or  twenty  pound)  — 
There  came  a  lady  forrard,  that  most  honorable  did  say, 
She'd  adopt  this  little  baby,  which  her  parents  cast  away. 

While  the  Doctor  pondered  on  this  hoffer  fair, 
Comes  a  letter  from  Devonshire,  from  a  party  there, 
Hordering  the  Doctor,  at  its  Mar's  desire, 
To  send  the  little  Infant  back  to  Devonshire. 

Lost  in  apoplexity,  this  pore  meddicle  man, 
Like  a  sensable  gentleman,  to  the  Justice  ran  ; 
Which  his  name  was  Mr.  Hammill,  a  honorable  beak, 
That  takes  his  seat  in  Worship  Street  four  times  a  week. 

"  0  Justice!  "  says  the  Doctor,  "instrugt  me  what  to  do, 
I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  throw  myself  on  you ; 
My  patients  have  no  doctor  to  tend  them  in  their  ills, 
JThere  they  are  in  Suffolk  without  their  draffts  and  pills  !) 

'  I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  know  how  I'll  dispose 
Of  this  pore  little  baby,  and  the  twenty  pun  note,  and  the 
clothes, 


THE    FOUNDLING    OF    SIIOREDITCH.  223 

And  I  want  to  go   back   to   Suffolk,  dear  Justice,  if  you 

please, 
And  my  patients  wants  their  Doctor,  and  their  Doctor 

wants  his  feez." 

Up  spoke  Mr.  Hammill,  sittin  at  his  desk, 

"  This  year  application  does  me  much  perplesk  ; 

What  I  do  adwise  you,  is  to  leave  this  babby 

In  the  Parish  where  it  was  left,  by  its  mother  shabby." 

The  Doctor  from  his  Worship  sadly  did  depart  — 
He  might  have  left  the  baby,  but  he  hadn't  got  the  heart, 
To  go  for  to  leave  that  Hinnocent,  has  the  laws  allows, 
To  the  tender  mussies  of  the  Union  House. 

Mother,  who  left  this  little  one  on  a  stranger's  knee, 
Think  how  cruel  you  have  been,  and  how  good  was  he  ! 
Think,  if  you've  been  guilty,  innocent  was  she ; 
And  do  not  take  unkindly  this  little  word  of  me  : 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  us  all.  sinners  as  we  be  ! 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 


The  play  is  done  ;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  any  thing  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, 
Let's  chose  it  with  a  parting  rhyme, 

And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends,* 
As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 


*  These  Terscs  were  printed  at  the  end  of  a  Christmas  Book  (1S-48-9),  "Dr. 
Birch  and  his  young  Friends." 

(221) 


THE    END    OF    THE    PLAT.  225 

On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play  ; 

Good  night !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 
A  kindly  greeting  go  alway ! 

Good  night !  — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain  than  those  of  men ; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive, 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys  ; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift ; 

o 


226  THE    END    OF    THE    PLAT. 

The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 
The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 

The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 
The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 

The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 
The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ?  * 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  ^ine  and  wit : 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel, 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

*  C.  B.  ob.  29th  November,  1848,  act.  42. 


THE    END    OF    THE    PLAY.  227 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen !  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize  ? 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  : 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays  ;) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 


228  THE    END    OF    THE    PLAY. 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still  — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


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November,  1855. 


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MRS.   CROSLAND'S  WRITINGS. 

LYDIA:  A  WOMAN'S  BOOK.  Cloth.  Price  75  cents. 
ENGLISH  TALES  AND  SKETCHES.  Cloth.  $1.00. 
MEMORABLE  WOMEN.     Illustrated.    $1.00. 

GRACE  GREENWOOD'S  WRITINGS. 

GREENWOOD  LEAVES.     1st  &  2d  Series.    $1.25  each. 
POETICAL  WORKS.    With  fine  Portrait.     Price  75  cents. 
HISTORY    OF    MY    PETS.      With    six    fine  Engravings. 

Scarlet  cloth.     Price  50  cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MY  CHILDHOOD.    With  six  fine 

Engravings.     Scarlet  cloth.     Price  50  cents. 

HAPS     AND    MISHAPS     OF     A    TOUR    IN    EUROPE. 

Price  $1.25. 

MERRIE   ENGLAND.     A  new  Juvenile.    Price  75  cents. 
THE  FOREST  SISTERS.     (In  Press.) 
A  NEW  JUVENILE.     (In  Press.) 

MRS.     MOWATT. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  ACTRESS.  Price  $1.25. 
PLAYS.  ARMAND  AND  FASHION.  Price  50  cents. 
MIMIC  LIFE.     IyoI.    Price    1.25. 


A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


ALICE    CARY. 

POEMS.     1  vol.    16mo.     SI. 00. 

CLOVERNOOK  CHILDREN.     With  Plates.     75  cents. 

MRS.    TAPPAN. 

RAINBOWS  FOR  CHILDREN.-   Illustrated.     75  cents. 
THE  MAGICIAN'S  SHOW  BOX.    Illustrated.    75  cents. 

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MEMOIR  OF  THE  BUCKMINSTERS.     SI. 25. 
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ALDERBROOK.    By  Fanny  Forester.    2  Vols.    Price  $1.75. 
THE    KATHAYAN    SLAVE,    AND    OTHER    PAPERS. 

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MY  TWO  SISTERS  :  A  Sketch  from  Memory.  Price  50  cts. 


POETRY . 

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CHARLES  MACKAY'S  POEMS.    lVol.  Cloth.  Price  $1.00. 
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LYTERIA  :    A  Dramatic  Poem.     By  J.  P.  Quincy.    Price  50 

cents. 

JOHN  G.  SAXE.    Poems.    With  Portrait.    Boards,  63  cents. 

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HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN.    Poems.   Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 
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MEMORY  AND  HOPE.     A  Book  of  Poems    referring  to 
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THALATTA  :    A  Book  for   the    Sea-Side.     1   vol.    16mo. 
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PASSION-FLOWERS.     By  Mrs.  Howe.     Price  75  cents. 
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G.  H.  LEWES.   The  Life  and  Works  of  Goethe.   2  vols.    16mo. 
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10  A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


LIGHT    ON    THE    DARK    RIVER:    or,    MEMOIRS    OF 
MRS.  HAMLIN.    1  vol.    llimo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

THE    BARCLAYS    OF    BOSTON.     By  Mrs.   H.   G.  Otis. 

1  vol.     12mo.    $1.25. 

NOTES    FROBI     LIFE.      By    Henry    Taylor,    author    of 

'Philip  Van  Artevelde.'     1vol.    *16mo.    Cloth.     Price  63  cents. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.    By  Horace  and  James  Smith. 

Boards.     Price  50  cents.     Cloth,  63  cents. 

WARRENIANA.    A  Companion  to  the  <  Rejected  Addresses.' 

Price  63  cents. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH'S  BIOGRAPHY.  2  vols.  $2.50. 

ART    OF    PROLONGING    LIFE.     By   Hufeland.     Edited 
by  Erasmus  Wilson,  F.  11.  S.     1  vol.    16mo.    Price  75  cents. 

JOSEPH    T.    BUCKINGHAM'S    PERSONAL    MEMOIRS 
AND    RECOLLECTIONS    OF    EDITORIAL    LIFE.       With    Portrait. 

2  vols.     16mo.     Price  $1.50. 

VILLAGE  LIFE   IN   EGYPT.     By  the  Author  of  'Purple 

Tints  of  Paris.'    2  vols.     16mo.     Price  $125. 

DR.  JOHN  C.  WARREN.   The  Preservation  of  Health,  &c. 
1  Vol.    Price  38  cents. 

PRIOR'S  LIFE  OF  EDMUND  BURKE.     2  vols.     $2.00. 

NATURE  IN    DISEASE.      By   Dr.  Jacob   Bigelow.      1   vol. 
16mo.     Price  $1.25. 

WENSLEY :  A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  MORAL.    Price  75  cts. 
GOLDSMITH.    The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.    Illustrated  Edition. 

Price  $3.00. 

PALISSY  THE  POTTER.     By  the  Author  of  <  How  to  make 

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BY   TICKNOR  AND   FIELDS. 


WILLIAM    MOUNTFORD.      Thorpe:     A    Quiet    English 

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HORACE  MANN.    Thoughts  for  a  Young  Man.    25  cents. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.     Sermons  of  Consolation.     $1.00. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK.     Price  $1.25. 

ANGEL-VOICES.     Price  38  cents. 

SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY.  From  the  <  Spectator.'    75  cts. 

S.   T.  WALLIS.      Spain,   her    Institutions,    Politics,    and 
Public  Men.     Price  $1.00. 

MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  WHEATON.     1  Vol.    Price  $1.00. 
LABOR  AND  LOVE  :  A  Tale  of  English  Life.     50  cents. 
MRS.   PUTNAM'S    RECEIPT  BOOK  ;    AN  ASSISTANT 

TO  HOUSEKEEPERS.     1vol.   16mo.    Price  50  cents. 

Mrs.  A.  C.  LOWELL.     Education  of  Girls.   Price  25  cts. 
THE  SOLITARY  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ.   By  the  Author 

of  Picciola.    Price  50  cents. 

RUTH.     A  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of   'Mary  Barton.' 

Cheap  Edition.     Price  38  cents. 


EACH    OP    THE    ABOVE    POEMS    AND    PROSE  WRITINGS,  MAY   BE    HAD    IN 
VARIOUS  STYLES   OP  HANDSOME  BINDING. 


j)^-  Any  book  published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  will  be  sent  by  mail, 
postage  free,  on  receipt  of  the  publication  price. 

Their  stock  of  Miscellaneous  Books  is  very  complete,  and  they  respectfully 
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ILLUSTRATED 

JUVENILE    BOOKS. 

CURIOUS  STORIES  ABOUT  FAIRIES.     75  cents. 

KIT  BAM'S  ADVENTURES.     75  cents. 

THE  FOREST  EXILES.     75  cents. 

THE  DESERT  HOME.     $1.00. 

THE  BOY  HUNTERS.     75  cents. 

THE  YOUNG  VOYAGEURS.     75  cents. 

A  BOY'S  ADVENTURES  IN  AUSTRALIA.     75  cents. 

RAINBOWS  FOR  CHILDREN.     75  cents. 

THE  MAGICIAN'S  SHOW  BOX.     75  cents. 

TANGLEWOOD  TALES.     75  cents. 

A  WONDER  BOOK  FOR  GIRLS  AND  BOYS.   75  cents. 

TRUE  STORIES  FROM  HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY.    75  cts. 

MERRIE  ENGLAND.     By  Grace  Greenwood.    75  cents. 

CLOVERNOOK  CHILDREN.     75  cents. 
ADVENTURES  IN  FAIRY  LAND.     75  cents. 

HISTORY  OF  MY  PETS.     By  Grace  Greenwood.    75  cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD.     50  cents. 

FLORENCE,  THE  PARISH  ORPHAN.     50  cents. 

MEMOIRS  OF  A  LONDON  DOLL.     50  cents. 

THE  DOLL  AND  HER  FRIENDS.     50  cents. 

TALES  FROM  CAT  LAND.     50  cents. 

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THE  STORY  OF  AN  APPLE.     50  cents. 

THE  GOOD  NATURED  BEAR.     75  cents.  *H  .?£ 

PETER  PARLEY'S  SHORT  STORIES  FOR  LONG  NIGHTS. 

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THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION.     38  cts. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  STATES.    8S  cts. 
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THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  STATES.     38  cents. 
THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AVESTERN  STATES.     38  cents. 
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GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2Msb55  JL' 


195511 


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UHJ.CtR.pFT   *'flP 


21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


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